


Of Skipping Stones and Unresolved Regrets

by The Primera Haruoka (TenshiEren14)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canon? What's Canon??, Competent! Noctis, Dreams and Nightmares, Family Drama, Family Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Iggy's a mildly jealous kid, Kid!Gladio, Kid!Noctis, Magically induced Narcolepsy, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Narcoleptic! Noctis, Noctis: The Beast Taming Terror of Insomnia, Not-Quite-A-Fix-It-AU, Overprotective! Regis, Politics, Protective enough to be troublesome! Cor, The never-ending pursuit of Leide, cuddles and snuggles, happy reading!, kid!Ignis, mild whump, uncle!cor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 02:26:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18023024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenshiEren14/pseuds/The%20Primera%20Haruoka
Summary: Nine-year-old Noctis Lucis Caelum, the heir apparent and crown prince to the throne of Lucis, only has one thing on his mind; the trip to Leide his Uncle Cor had promised him. It didn't particularly matter that his walking was still a bit wobbly or that he kept having strange dreams that not even Carbuncle could chase away, he was going to see those Anak if it killed him.Honestly, it just might.(Ignis sends his regards. The traitor.)





	1. A Daisy; Thoughtful

**Author's Note:**

> I have never written Final Fantasy fanfiction before which, honestly, is a minor travesty. I absolutely adore this series and XV despite its shortcomings, is no exception. This was the strange brainchild of Noctis getting a boost in magic to compensate for his physical shortcomings and Noctis being wholly uninterested in Lucian Politics because he's too busy trying to convince Ignis to help him smuggle some Garuda into the palace, no really Iggy, it'll be fine. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Cor Leonis was a man who had seen many things in his lifetime. 

 

He had been fighting wars since before his voice had smoothened itself out from the ravages of puberty, had seen cities become cloaked in ash and steel and drown under billows of smoke and mocking red cloth whose intersecting dragons revelled in the blood that spilled into the soils of Eos. During his journeys, he had met many a great man, and had watched many more give their lives to protect their pride and their home. He had already lived through the rise and fall of one king of Lucis and was currently serving at the side of another all whilst looking on as the future monarch grew into his own before his eyes. Despite his experience, all of his training, all of his years of service and blood and pride could have never prepared him for the display in front of him.

 

Noctis Lucis Caelum, the very small, very much nine year old heir apparent of Lucis was regarding him with every inch of severity in his diminutive body. His blazing blue eyes were resolute, steady in a way Cor had thought impossible in the willowy child and his posture was impeccable; proof that the hours of etiquette and posture lessons with his advisor had stuck despite whatever outward aversion the little prince had displayed. In his tiny fingers (and it would be remiss of Cor to not point out the trembling of the frail digits) was a relatively thin notebook which Cor rather intimately knew was stuffed cover to cover with graceless scribbles and indistinguishable doodles of what rather loosely resembled the monsters and beasts that called the fields of Leide their home. 

 

He was also standing. His legs were wobbling, struggling to support the weight of the boy who had quickly crossed the wide corridor to intercept Cor, but he was standing never-the-less. The Marshall noted, with an absent sort of pride, that there was neither Ignis nor the gleaming white crutches that had become a familiar sight anywhere within view, cementing the fact that Noctis had indeed walked all on his own,  _ was standing _ all on his own for the first time in months. It warmed him right to his frigid heart, a smattering of something that felt far too saccharine to be even remotely acceptable as he gazed down at Noctis, but that uncomfortable burst of definitely-not-paternal-joy was quite effectively tempered by Noctis’ stern expression. 

 

Cor took the chance to study the rest of youth before him. The velcro brace on his knee was much more understated than the garish thing Regis had taken to wearing and through the creases of his t-shirt, the collar of which was suspiciously damp, Cor could see the small bulge of his back brace. Noctis looked frail, looked as though the folds of his clothing would swallow him but despite his trembling and the pain he was no doubt fighting through, there he was.  Looking at Cor with determination firmly set into the frame of those almost insultingly thin shoulders. 

 

“You promised.”  

 

Had Cor been a lesser man, he would’ve flinched. He still hadn’t adjusted to Noctis’ subdued voice, still expected to hear that chirping tone that brushed against the edges of an excited shout whenever Noctis opened his mouth because the boy had always been nothing if not exuberant. Looking down at him now, it didn’t take an expert to see that the Noctis of now was a shell of his former self, a shade that had whitened his already porcelain skin and weighed the curve of his shoulders until they pressed too close together. This Noctis, the boy dressed all in Lucian black with a notebook as his only support and a mettle that burned away at any reclusive trait in those tempest eyes, was a new person, the strong epitaph to a youth who had no doubt died in that Marilith attack and he had come to make Cor answer for his transgressions. 

 

If Cor could remember what said transgression was though, that would be nice too.

He had to fight the urge to kneel, knew from the bow of those childish lips that  Noctis wouldn’t appreciate any gesture that could be misconstrued as patronising, yet he couldn’t help the slight confusion that wove its way into his voice unbidden, “Excuse me?”

 

Noctis glared up at him, a proper glare complete with a scowl and everything, and repeated himself slowly, a tone that clearly betrayed how much of an idiot he thought Cor was in that moment, “You promised you would take me to see the Anak crossing in Leide if I could walk by March.” The boy’s expression eased a bit as he averted his eyes, the force that was previously behind his words draining as his nerves sank their way back around Noctis’ throat, “It’s February,” he mumbled, “Did you forget?”

 

Ah. 

 

Cor had, in fact, forgotten. 

 

He could hardly blame himself for his words slipping his mind however. The promise had been made in a hasty attempt to convince a quivering prince who cried for his father to stop the pain--to stop watching while they hurt him-- to continue with the arduous task of physical therapy and rehabilitation. Cor had whispered it to him after a particularly terrible session, one that had ended in Noctis burning half a room with a fire born of self-preservation and hefty insurance fees for the saint of a woman who was heading Noctis’ rehab, but he hadn’t given much thought to it. Given Noctis’ aversion to the therapy, his newfound timidity and the extensiveness of the damage to his back and legs, Cor had assumed that the child would take the full term of eighteen months to get back on his feet and had let that be the end of it. He had never mentioned the promise again, and Noctis had never seemed any more enthused at the prospect of therapy but evidently, Cor had missed something major because there he was, demanding his prize for his hard work.

 

The Marshall looked down at Noctis, studying his posture with a new goal in mind. His feet were steady despite fine tremors around his thighs and hips and from the dark circles that were carved under Noctis’ bright eyes, Cor could tell that the boy was going through great pains to simply keep himself upright. He really wanted this, had worked himself to the bone for a chance to see the tall Anaks that had for some reason, always enchanted him despite them being such an all around unremarkable animal, and to have all of that dedication amount to what would most certainly seem like nothing in Noctis’ eyes would be, among a great many other things, a disappointment. 

 

Cor was a great many things; a hellraiser, a commander, a warrior, a heathen. He was not, however, under any circumstance, a disappointment. 

 

He allowed himself a sigh and finally knelt to Noctis’ level, keeping his hands to himself despite the longing to ruffle the child’s scrappy black hair, “So it seems. Congratulations, Noctis. You’ve done well.” 

 

There was an odd expression that crossed Noctis’ face then, a genuine surprise followed swiftly with a burning blush that forced the child to bury his head lower. Curious, had no one congratulated the boy on his efforts? 

 

Cor neatly ignored the alien warmth of emotion in the pit of his stomach at the prospect of being the one Noctis wished to show his progress to first and continued speaking, his voice unwavering despite the unexpectedness of Noctis’ demands, “You still need a bit more time to rest. When you can walk for long stretches of time, then we’ll go to Leide.”

 

Noctis looked contemplative for a moment before he leaned forward and gently threw his arms around Cor’s muscled neck, “Thank you.” he whispered, his voice thick with what Cor knew was poorly hidden pain, “Next month then?”

 

Cor sighed, properly adjusting his prince’s trembling frame in his arms and allowing himself to place a heavy hand in the dark hair that pricked against his exposed cheek. “Next month,” he confirmed. 

 

Noctis relaxed then, content to let Cor carry him back to his room now that he had proven himself.  As Cor strided the vast halls of the palace, the weight of Lucis’ future snuggled against his breast, all he could think of was the fact that he had just voluntarily signed himself over to unmentionable levels of utterly fucked. 

 

He could already hear Clarus’ smarmy laughter ringing in his ears.


	2. A Gladiolus; Windswept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are messy but that's okay. 
> 
> It's an adult's job to pave the way for the sake of their children. 
> 
> (Even if no one else is on their side.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I was going to stick to my update schedule but I was so moved by the overwhelmingly positive response that I couldn't help but splurge a little. 
> 
> Please don't get used to 2 chapters a week but enjoy this one all the same. 
> 
> (I feel like it's worth mentioning that I absolutely adore Cor.)

Cor would be the first to admit that while he didn’t outright fear Regis, he did have a healthy respect for him. 

 

Outside of the obvious, what with Regis being the king of all Lucis and thus deserving acknowledgement as a bare minimum for his dedication to the people of Insomnia and the wider continent of Eos, Cor had had the rare pleasure of knowing Regis personally. Despite what the tabloids and press conferences would one believe, there was an actual person beneath the heavy crown and weighted robes and tight, diplomatic smiles. Regis was a man of disgusting cunning and unexpected vindictiveness tempered by a heart that bled so liberally that it was a small wonder that he hadn’t drowned in his own sympathy ages ago. He was dutiful and industrious, a king who listened to his people and did whatever he could to keep them safe under the banner of Lucis and his magic. He had earned Cor’s fealty with long nights spent on a smouldering battlefield, healing fatal afflictions with muttered words that conveyed images of civilisations long lost to the march of time. There was power in his every motion, a restraint that spoke less of tightly maintained magic that was just begging for an excuse to be freed and more of control born of an inner peace that awed as much as it perplexed. 

 

Regis was a worthy king, a fearless ruler and a man of honour. Above even that, he was Cor’s friend; a battle brother, an advisor and an eager ear to his concerns and regards. 

 

None of this mattered when it came to his son.

 

Wherever the crown prince was concerned, Regis became a besotted, conservative fool. Cor was half convinced his Majesty’s intellect had slipped out of his head and died with Aulea all those years ago because to this day, Regis’ decisions concerning his boy were nothing but a continuous string of baffling, gold-plated handicaps. It was, perhaps, one of the only issues where Cor was malcontent to stand idly by and await orders (not that he was particularly good at being obedient in the first place). Naturally, Cor understood why Regis would deign to swaddle his only heir in bubble-wrap, could even be sympathetic to some nebulous degree, but Noctis was fast growing and that incessant coddling was suffering him terribly. 

 

Of course, unfortunately, Cor couldn’t say such in so many words.   

 

Cor did not fear Regis, but he did have some iota of self-preservational instinct left in the annals of his battle-addled brain. To request permission to take His Majesty’s son past the walls of Insomnia--nay past even the stairs of the Citadel when he had just recovered from a nigh debilitating injury was asking to be arrested on principle. 

 

Regis would do it too. Cor had been arrested before for lesser charges. 

 

Even before the Marilith, the king’s protective streak was legendary, running long and hot as Ravatogh itself. Now that such an incident had occured beyond the wall, where the light of the Crystal didn’t shine, Noctis would be lucky if he could so much as taste imported food again, nevermind bodily leave the palace before his thirtieth birthday. Such paranoia would perhaps wane with time but Cor highly doubted His Grace would be ready to let the little princeling out of his sight for many years to come and, given the circumstances, he could not fault him for such a thing. 

 

This would be the second time Noctis would cause unimaginable grief to the king’s soul; the second time in less than a decade that Regis was forced to watch as a portion of his heart lay dying before him, slipping away in his thick, useless fingers. Noctis was the Chosen King, a child fated to die to cleanse the world of a cynical plague-- an affliction that poisoned man and beast alike. It was by the light of Eos’ cruel and capricious gods that this prophecy was brought into existence and Cor thought it nothing but empty platitude spouted by lifeless figureheads with nothing to lose. The self-same ‘illustrious’ gods of Eos had done nothing to save their ‘beloved’ as he lay dying on the still burning pitch beneath him. Those gods had been content to let Regis trade away his life for their people, the same people their Chosen One would eventually give his life to save, all while they stood back and watched from their gilded thrones on high.   

 

It was a wicked thing. A relationship that was such a loose sketch of symbiosis that on some days Cor could quite clearly see just where that line blurred and wandered off into the territory of parasitism. 

 

His king had mastered dealing with the whims and cruelties of the gods but Noctis hadn’t even been informed of his part on the chessboard of history. Maybe it was absurd of Cor to assume that he could attempt to fill in those gaps-- hubristic even, but Noctis was as much his family as his idiot of a father was. At this point, Cor had already made his bed in the mess of a promise he had made to the princeling, all that was left to do was to convince his stubborn King to let him take Noctis into Leide without getting permanently banned from the Citadel.

* * *

 

In truth, Cor could already predict the way Regis would react to such a brazen request. His Majesty would get that tight look about his eyes, would dig his fingers into the leather of his armrest and meet Cor’s words with half-caustic, incredibly overt orders to ‘stop poking his nose into matters that didn’t concern him’ whatever that could possibly mean. Regis was such an incorrigible ass when he got into the right mood; in between the obstinate Council that was having far too much fun fighting Regis’ wish to spend more time helping Noctis through his rehab and the worry that was eating him alive, Cor was almost ninety-nine percent certain that Regis would be all too pleased to take out some of his frustrations on Cor and his big mouth. 

 

The time for deliberation was fast approaching its end.

 

Clarus stood guard as usual, already appraising him from his station in front of the lacquered study door, his hawkish eyes twinkling with a vivacity his hardened features wouldn’t allow. Cor wouldn’t put it past the man to already know the reason behind his hesitancy to enter (for he had been dithering about the hall while he collected his thoughts for the past five minutes and such nervousness could only mean Noctis was somehow involved) and in true Amicitia fashion, had left him to suffer until Cor verbally requested assistance. 

 

Cor pinned the Shield with a hard stare, “Clarus-”

 

The Amicitia held his hand up, the loose fabric of his sleeve falling in graceful rivulets around his muscular wrist, “I’m not getting involved.”

 

The Marshal folded his hands across the broad length of his chest, his stance solid despite the dismissal, “You don’t even know what it’s about.”

 

Clarus huffed, a dignified sound despite its scolding flavour, “It’s about Noctis. It’s always about Noctis.” He mirrored Cor’s posture, holding his head high to emphasize his point, “Do you honestly think I’ve missed your snipes at His Highness in the past days? Whatever you have to say can wait.”

 

It was an odd thing to experience a dressing down from Clarus Amicitia of all people, especially when Cor hadn’t gotten one of his friend’s patented ‘your issues are politically insignificant, bugger off’ speeches in quite a few years, but it didn’t abate the brief swell of irritation that rushed through Cor’s head. It was a recurring theme amongst the upper echelons of the Citadel to dismiss matters concerning the prince as folly. With the memory of the Marilth so close to the surface of everyone’s memory, it was an overwhelmingly popular view to see little Noctis Lucis Caelum as more liability than proper heir.  

 

That view was the reason Regis was so tied up in matters of ‘grave political importance’, it was the reason behind Noctis’ newfound aversion to his father and it was fast becoming the number one reason why Cor was considering hogtying his Majesty and illustrating his point to him, treason be damned to hell. 

 

“ _ Nothing _ could possibly be more important than his son,” Cor all but hissed, “Especially not when they still haven’t decided on what they want to do about him.” 

 

Clarus’ eyes were sharp as they stared at him. For a moment it looked as though he wanted to give Cor a good thrashing, or at the very least, a well deserved backhand into the nearest wall.  They stood in tense quiet for a moment, both taking a breath to cool themselves. It was almost comical how quickly they could grate on each other’s senses. Clarus was as stone faced as they came, yet Cor could still get him to the point of visible frustration with only a few words. 

 

For once, Cor felt no satisfaction in that power. 

 

“They want him to remarry,” Clarus finally said.

 

The spitting  _ ‘what?!’ _ left Cor’s mouth before he had the chance to halt it. Remarry?! Regis? The man who was so lost in his grief over Aulea that he still wrote letters to her in the silence of his study?! The very idea spat on everything Regis was as a father and a lover, nevermind the fact that Regis’ heart was wholly occupied by his stifled, awkward love for his son. 

 

“Regis would never,” Cor found himself saying. Clarus’ expression did not waver. Cor felt distinctly like he had taken the business end of a greatsword to his stomach.

 

The silence that rushed to fill the space between them was thick enough to asphyxiate a beast. 

 

“Who?” he finally heard himself say. 

 

“Sylva.”

 

There was… nothing Cor could possibly say to that. Permanent ties to Tenebrae in the form of a marital union was just the bolster that Lucis needed, nevermind the joining of both king and Oracle would provide a desperately needed national morale boost. It made an almost insulting amount of sense and even if Regis didn’t do it now, eventually Noctis would bear the burden instead. 

 

Cor was familiar enough with his king to know precisely where his thoughts would be on that matter. 

 

Clarus’ smooth voice filled Cor’s ears, a neutrality in his tone that belied just how consternated the entire matter made him, “Consider carefully whether you want to disturb him or not. I won’t stop you, but he’s been in a foul mood as of late.” 

 

With good reason, honestly. 

 

His piece said, Clarus resumed his position at the door. It was obvious now that there was far more impeding a trip to Leide than Regis being a mother hen. Still, more pressing than Noctis’ childishness, more even than Regis’ overbearing nature was the seemingly insignificant fact that Noctis would ultimately assume that Cor had lied to him. 

 

There weren’t many people Noctis could implicitly trust as a prince. 

 

It was a side effect of the titles that followed him, poisoning the air around him with expectation built upon entitlement. Even when the child was in the prime of his exuberance, he had understood that the mouths of men spoke nothing but honeyed words. In a sense, that was the purpose behind introducing him to Ignis at such a delicate age. Ignis was meant to teach him what true companionship was emblematic of, a familiar face at a familiar age who would stand by Noctis through thick and thin until the young prince hit his blessed age and received his Shield. No one could’ve predicted that the young Tenebraen immigrant would so instinctively cling to the divides of duty and class. No one had considered the effects Ignis’ careful distance had on young Noctis. 

 

When Cor had first met the boy, properly met the boy that is, Noctis was a plucky four-year-old who saw the world as a never-ending cloister of challenges. He had seen Cor’s mountainous frame and immediately latched onto his pants, squirming and struggling to find leverage in the smooth surface of Cor’s pressed trousers so he could scale the length of his legs and ‘conquer the giant’.  He had barely made it past the loops of Cor’s belt when Ignis had neatly stepped in, bodily removing Noctis with his pudgy little hands and  _ bowing _ to Cor while apologies escaped from his blushing lips.

 

Throughout the rest of their meeting, Noctis had made to ascend Cor’s wide shoulders numerous times, but before his impulse could become tangible action, he would look to Ignis for permission. It was a pitiful irony really, the one person put into Noctis’ life to ease the pangs of loneliness brought about by Noctis’ station was also the person who made Noctis the most aware of his position in the social hierarchy. It was clear that the princeling harboured no ill-will towards Ignis’ particularness, so much so that when Ignis finally allowed Noctis to climb Cor (with the Marshal’s permission of course) Noctis thanked him before asking Ignis to help him do the impossible. 

 

(Cor had been mildly disappointed when Noctis did not attempt to scale his limbs even once during their second meeting. The young heir had gotten that look about him a few times but, just as before, had reigned himself in for Ignis’ sake.  Only after Ignis had stepped out of the room to chase down one of the attendants for tea did Noctis step forward and beckon Cor to his level, conspiratorially whispering that ‘Iggy would get in trouble if Noctis broke something trying to climb Mount Marshal’ and that ‘he would try again when he was sure he could definitely reach the top’.)

 

Perhaps it was embarrassing to admit now, but  _ that _ had been the moment where Cor had decided that he would protect that child with his everything. 

It was a feeling that drove him to volunteer to be the boy’s bodyguard when he was revealed to be the Chosen King and it was a decision he had never regretted.   

 

For Cor it was a matter of pride married to his innate sense of principle. It was the unwillingness to give up because Noctis did not know of the messy political strings attached to his father’s every limb, and such innocence should be allowed to flourish for as long as it could. It was his need to see his charge smile again. 

 

Cor brushed past Clarus, placing his hand on the doorknob before briefly pausing, “Your son is around Ignis’ age, isn’t he?” 

 

He didn’t need to look at his friend to feel the weight of his parental stare, “What of it?”

 

The Marshal felt himself smirk before he could help himself, cracking the door open without knocking, “No reason.”

 

Noctis would see those Anak. An Immortal like him should, at the very least, be able to make that happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates every Wednesday, if all goes according to plan.


	3. A Violet; Melancholic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Ignis and the drama in-between.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled a lot with writing this because Ignis is, unsurprisingly, a really complicated character to pin down. 
> 
> That said, I had to actively remind myself that he's eleven and that this isn't as serious a story as the tone would have you think and now I think I've somehow managed to retroactively fall deeper in love with Iggy. 
> 
> Well, that and a I have a soft spot for precocious children since I was one growing up, ;)

Ignis Scientia didn’t like admitting it, but he was worried. 

 

The average Tuesday schedule dictated that Noctis attend his Lucian History lesson followed by penmanship before lunch but, ever since his young lord had mustered up the courage to push for a trip to Leide with the Marshal, he had begun behaving quite peculiarly.

 

Ignis would wholeheartedly concede that Noctis had been more off-brand than usual even before his face-off, dozing off in the middle of getting dressed two mornings in a row and falling asleep  _ again _ while he had been reacquainting himself with dance of all things, but after observing him over the weekend, Ignis had come to the firm conclusion that something was far more wrong than he had initially anticipated. 

 

In all fairness, the morning had started off in a marginally normal way. 

 

Ignis had arrived at the prince’s door at a quarter past six, benevolence being the only reason he had deigned to bestow Noctis the extra fifteen minutes, and had eased himself into the room to begin the arduous process of rousing his prince. The routine had been forced into Ignis’ head at this point, as much a part of his permanent memory as the small list of Noctis’ food allergies or the way in which the boy preferred his tea. Noctis would require two wakings, one that was a cursory, physical shake and another that would require sunlight, a spray bottle and a stern hand. The entire thing wouldn’t take more than half hour and, if Ignis was lucky, he would have Noctis dressed by seven and off to breakfast in a timely enough manner to catch the king still at the table. Was it wrong for Ignis to take as much joy in spitzing his sleeping prince with warm water as he did? Perhaps. But he enjoyed the meagre payback as much as Noctis needed the gesture to be fully awake for the day. 

 

He needed the gesture as much as Noctis did. 

 

To be quite honest, a part of Ignis took nothing but absolute joy in the fact that a ‘normal’ even existed anymore. The Marilith had been a scare for all of Lucis; a month’s long window of such political instability that it had been a small wonder Niflheim hadn’t pressed their advantage when Regis was at his weakest. Ignis had watched when Noctis was brought into the Citadel more blood than person, a mangled shade that looked to all the world like a needlessly gory adaptation of Sleeping Beauty. He had watched when his prince lay motionless in a plush bed for weeks, the vibrant sheets greedily swallowing up whatever colour was left in those marble cheeks along with the morale of a nation. Before quicksilver eyes had finally opened, Ignis had lost count of the amount of times he had seen his noble King slouch into himself with a trembling lip and tear-stained cheeks, had seen him waver between duty to his distressed people and his unresponsive son before choosing his people each and every time. When Ignis had been notified that Noctis had awakened, he had been polishing Noctis’ Zu figurines, had deluded himself into thinking that when his prince woke up, the first thing he would want to do was make up for lost playing time. By the time Ignis had sprinted his way across the Citadel (and even now, he could clearly recall every anxious, beauteous, hopeful feeling that had run through his mind in that moment) Noctis was already crying into his father’s shoulder more shocked than sad as he complained of an alarming numbness in his legs. 

 

The days that had followed had been eye-opening to say the least.

 

It had been a hard pill to swallow if he were being honest. No one expected Noctis to be completely the same after such a life-altering event, but there had still been an overwhelming hope in the bottom of Ignis’ heart that the pensive, closed off Noctis who made himself ever-present in the wake of the accident would simply be a phase and the real, familiar Noctis, the boy whose Cheshire smiles and half baked schemes preceded strangely intelligent endeavours, would make a full re-emergence. Ignis had waited by his lord’s side, had acted as crutch and foot and comfort, all in the anticipation of seeing that carefree smile once more illuminate those crystal blue eyes but, by the time winter had rolled around, the truth had already become unignorable. 

 

It had been difficult adjusting to ‘new’ Noctis.

 

New Noctis didn’t laugh whenever Ignis exaggerated his accent to imitate the stuffy Councilmen and women. New Noctis showed little interest in scaling the walls of the Citadel to get the clearest view of the city, actively giving heart attacks to the Glaives on duty, the Crownsguard on duty and  _ Ignis  _ who was perpetually on duty all in the name of avoiding a half hour of boredom. New Noctis didn’t speak of whatever monster of the day Marshal Cor told him about during their evenings together, instead preferring to sit too quietly in his wheelchair and scribble the information down in a crudely made leather-bound notebook which had been another product of Marshal Cor’s imagination.

 

New Noctis spent a lot of time reading and staring out into nothing. New Noctis preferred the company of the gardens to the cool steel of the Citadel walls. New Noctis ate far less than he should. New Noctis kept Ignis an armslength away even though Ignis had gladly become his legs, arms and anything else he had needed. 

 

For a considerable amount of time, Ignis had hated ‘new’ Noctis.

 

Call him brazen, but Ignis had always seen Noctis as more brother than responsibility. Sure, Ignis conducted himself in a manner befitting of his station at all times, but he loved his prince viciously and even though he was young, he had already dedicated himself entirely to the well-being of this tiny boy with the infectious smile. Noctis had been his introduction into Lucian culture, had helped him relax when his studies got too overwhelming or when he got too caught up in thinking of the intricacies of situations that had not yet occured. Noctis was the one who had shown him how much fun chasing butterflies could be, had changed his entire view on royalty and abated his consternation at being taken from his brother just to babysit some spoiled prince from a not-so-far away country. 

 

And then, suddenly, Noctis had gone ahead and had the audacity to  _ change,  _ leaving Ignis out of it and with no way to communicate with him or help him. 

 

The loneliness had dragged on Ignis’ patience, driving the wedge between them both even deeper until one day Noctis was gone and the king was gone and no one had even told Ignis that they were going  _ to Tenebrae of all places _ all because Noctis was busy sulking and Ignis was busy being bitter about the loss of his friend. 

 

Lord Amicitia of all people had been the one to find Ignis when he had begun vindictively plucking Lucian roses in the garden (those were ‘new’ Noctis’ favourite so maybe if he came back to find them all bare and dreary and dead, he would be forced to ask for Ignis’ help planting new ones). He had taken one glance at Ignis’ soil stained hands and the multitude of sad, black rose blooms littering the ground around him and had gotten this  _ look _ in his too sharp eyes that spoke of disapproving, of reluctant understanding. Ignis had been far too caught up in the anger and ignorance squeezing away at his heart to be mortified or apologetic and when Lord Amicitia squatted down beside him, brief words of reprimand and succinct anecdotes spilling from his lips, Ignis had finally begun feeling as foolish as he had been behaving.

 

‘New’ Noctis was still Noctis, no matter how different they seemed. Ignis’ job was to stand by his prince’s side regardless of his own feelings. Noctis was going through so much so quickly and Ignis wasn’t helping make the change any easier with his spite and bitterness at perceived slights.  

 

(It helped tremendously when Noctis returned from the week long trip with a crown of sylleblossoms for Ignis and a tentative smile for the admittedly terrible pun Ignis had given him in return.)

 

Somehow, miraculously, their relationship had recovered from that latent disaster and Ignis had comfortably settled back into his role of retainer/attendant/miscellaneous friend/occasional pair of crutches/whatever else Noctis could ever need. After Noctis had started his physical rehabilitation, Ignis had been lectured numerous times on the importance of keeping a dedicated schedule for the young prince and in the eight or so months they had been working for, both Noctis and Ignis had tried their utmost to stick to it. 

 

That unbroken streak, amongst a host of many other factors, was why Ignis had a mild aneurysm upon opening the prince’s room to find him absent from his bed. 

* * *

 

It was a muffled groan of pain that tipped Ignis off to his location. 

 

Ignis had just begun  frantically combing through the display shelves mounted on Noctis’ walls when he heard a shuffling followed by the dull thump of a head against strong walls. He had put his ear to the wall then, hope blooming in his heart that Noctis had somehow woken up extra early and tripped over something in the closet before the heavy worry of  _ Noctis potentially tripping in the closet _ hit him with the force of a behemoth paw to the chest. He quickly skittered towards the door of the walk-in closet, peeling it open and hastily flicking on the light. 

 

Noctis, who had stuffed himself into the very back of the closet, _hissed_ at him. 

 

Actually, verbally hissed at him.

 

Then, in the wake of his continued gawping inaction, Ignis found a shoe weakly tossed in what he assumed was supposed to be his general direction. 

 

A beat of silence between them. 

 

“ _ Turn it off. _ ” 

 

There was vague amusement bubbling up in Ignis’ chest but it was quashed when Noctis whined, slowly peeling his face from the winter jacket he had shoved it into to glare at Ignis like he had offended all one hundred and thirteen of his predecessors, “The lights, Specs.  _ Now. _ ” 

 

That almost ever-present worry prickled absently at Ignis’ nerves, but he easily ignored it, flicking off the light and quietly making his way to the back of the closet. It was almost perfectly dark in the closet what with the only sliver of light peeping in from the slightly ajar door, but even then Ignis could make out the tight curl of Noctis’ body. From the raised veins on the back of his usually crystal white neck, Ignis could discern that he was grimacing into the jacket, struggling to keep from making proper noise lest he aggravate his head. 

 

It’s a split second decision to cancel the morning lessons; Ignis only needed a heartbeat to know that Noctis wouldn’t be brushing this one off as easily as he usually did.

From his place pitifully rolled up on the cold floors, Noctis gave a quiet groan. Ignis felt his heart throb with empathy. 

 

He carefully made his way to the jacket rack, daintily shifting around the hangers so as to mitigate any possible noise. He managed to find a good, black overcoat--definitely the Marshal’s from its size alone-- and squatted down besides Noctis to spread it over him, making sure to cover up even his trembling toes, “Do you think you can handle some painkillers?” 

 

Noctis didn’t even bother trying to move his head, muttering out a strained, “Mmhm,” before wincing at the volume of his own voice in his ear. 

 

Right, painkillers. Ignis could do painkillers. 

 

He felt a bit bad about leaving Noctis on the floor, but asking him to move in that condition would be cruel even for him. Ignis did his best to silently shuffle out of the closet before stepping a bit more purposefully to the door. 

 

The headaches were another oddity that had begun a few weeks before he had approached the Marshal. They had started off relatively tame, just a cursory complaint here and there of a headache or a pressure behind his eyes but in less than two weeks, they had evolved into something far more sinister gradually increasing in intensity and frequency. Ignis always felt useless during them, at the mercy of Noctis’ body while he watched as his prince winced every other step or grimaced at nothing for a few seconds in between the hustle and bustle of his daily responsibilities. At first, Ignis had just assumed they were a result of Noctis’ messy sleep schedule (a combination of the boy’s insistence to hear extra stories from Marshall Leonis even if it meant staying up past his bedtime and the collective strain he had been putting on his body over the past months to speed up the rehabilitation process) but upon cursory observation and a couple innocent questions, he had uncovered an interesting link. 

 

The worst of his headaches always occurred after one of his strange dreams. 

 

After establishing a questioning system, Ignis had discovered that the sudden uncontrollable sleepiness also followed those suspicious dreams. Further prodding just resulted in Noctis shutting himself down and brushing Ignis’ questions off. It was worrisome that the king’s spell had run its course (or at least Ignis assumed Carbuncle was a spell of some sort), even more so when it was made abundantly apparent that Ignis, even with all his budding expertise and knowledge of Noctis, could do nothing for him but awkwardly stand off to the side and watch as Noctis fought against his own body. 

 

It hurt. It hurt a lot to be shown just how truly useless Ignis was in the grand scheme of things. Ignis supposes that’s why he always became so antsy for something to  _ do _ when Noctis retreated into himself to fight his internal battles. Selfish though it may be, Ignis needed a distraction from his stinging incompetence. 

* * *

He returned to the bedroom in record time, pulling the door open in a fuss because he had taken  _ a whole ten minutes _ and if this had been a life or death situation, Noctis would already be cold. His quick steps were halted by the curious visage of His Royal Highness sitting plaintively in a fold-up chair by Noctis’ bedside. Sure enough, if Ignis tip-toed and stretched his neck around the broad shoulders of his monarch, he would see Noctis tiny body curled under the comforter with a damp washcloth draped over his face and his chest steadily rising and falling. 

 

Well, it was fine if His Highness had attended to Noctis first. Ignis would put the medication he had definitely not crumpled in his fist from the brief lance of envy that arced through his chest in his wallet so next time, he could administer relief immediately. He swallowed and began closing the door, deliberately choosing to focus on the relief he felt from seeing Noctis out of pain and in the presence of someone Ignis could trust with his health. 

 

Besides, he knew when he wasn’t needed. He still had his own classes to attend after all.

 

“Ignis.”

 

His Highness’ voice was tranquil but the order was every bit as effective as one spoken at his regular volume. 

 

Ignis finished stuffing the pills into his wallet, making a mental note to organise them later and closed the door behind him. The walk to His Highness’ seat was not nearly long enough. 

 

“My Lord, good morning.” 

 

The King gave him a half-amused look, as though he hadn’t expected Ignis to address him with his proper title despite the early hour. Ignis would be marginally affronted if he hadn’t been busy cataloging the King’s casual wear. It wasn’t as though he had never seen the King out of his full raiment, in fact, Ignis knew for a fact that His Majesty hated his heavy mantle and stuffy suit, but their was distinct difference in knowing something and seeing it play out before one’s eyes. 

 

He was in a pale lavender sweater and dark slacks. His knee brace was as hideous as ever, bright and gold and attention grabbing against the muted black of his pants but somehow it worked. The King was nursing a still steaming cup of tea, something Ignis couldn’t remember noticing but wouldn’t question all the same. His Majesty looked… normal. Like an average dad on an early morning who had been dragged from his sleep too early to deal with his child’s stubborn cold. Were it not for the understated glint of the Lucian crown against the still dark roots of his hair and the unmistakable power that emanated from every fibre of his being, Ignis would be able to almost relax. 

 

Almost. 

 

His Highness took a sip from his mug, “Has he been well?”

 

Ignis ceased his staring and turned his attention to Noctis’ peaceful frame. Eventually he would’ve notified the king of his suspicions but he had elected to instead keep observing, to keep hoping that the worst of the symptoms would pass without incident. “I admit that I worry for him, my Lord.” 

 

The King sighed quietly, the heat from his scalding tea escaping past his lips in a thin plume of smoke. He seemed content to leave the conversation there, dragging out the silence until Ignis unconsciously fidgeted, “I didn’t know his headaches had gotten this bad.” 

 

Well, in all fairness, neither had Ignis. “Today’s the first day that a headache’s incapacitated him. I already requested that the head nurse come up to take a look at him in two hours time.” 

 

His Majesty chuckled into the rim of his tea, the sound warm and enchanting, “My son has truly been blessed with someone like you, Ignis.” He sipped and swallowed, “From the bottom of this useless father’s heart, I thank you.” 

 

Ignis opened his mouth, ready to refute his Lord’s unsubtle self deprecation but his liege held up his hand. His eyes were twinkling as he met Ignis’ gaze, a sparkling chartreuse that stood out despite the worry lines and wrinkles, “Let an old man wallow, won’t you?”

 

There wasn’t much of an answer Ignis could give to that. The King entrusted him with his most prized possession in his stead, the very least Ignis could do to repay that monumental responsibility was carry himself with pride and make himself worthy of the King’s seemingly inexplicable trust in his abilities. As they let the beginnings of an easy silence settle between them Ignis took a potentially fatal chance. 

 

“Will you let him go to Leide?”

 

Ignis didn’t have to look to feel his King stiffen at the query. There was a long sip from the mug this time, something that felt simultaneously weightier and more emphatic than the ones before. When he next spoke, it was not Regis Lucis Caelum the concerned, half sleep-deprived parent who addressed Ignis, but instead Regis Lucis Caelum the High King of Lucis, “What would you have me do, Scientia?” 

 

The young attendant kept his gaze fixed on Noctis’ body, swallowing the apprehension in his stomach, “He’s earned it, my Lord.” 

 

“He can barely keep himself upright.” 

 

Ignis was  _ definitely _ going to get hung for this, “With all due respect Your Majesty, neither can you.”   

 

Silence. 

 

A pointed sip. 

 

“Is this what’s best for him?”

 

Ignis took a moment to think of Noctis’ reticence, of his quiet persistence and his gritted hisses of pain as he forced his body to cooperate. He thought of Noctis’ perpetually neutral expression which seemed to lighten only when he was surrounded by the fresh scent of the Lucian gardens or the imagery from Cor’s tales still fresh and vivid in his mind. He thought of Noctis laying nearly perfectly still in front of him, swaddled and cadaverous against the rich grey of his comforter. Even if he hadn’t made peace with his prince’s wishes beforehand, his own desire to see Noctis happy would have made his decision for him. 

 

“Undoubtedly, Your Majesty.”

 

Regis hummed, sitting solidly in the flimsy plastic chair. 

 

Ignis silently prayed that his audacity wouldn’t come back to haunt Noctis.  

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -insert eye emoji here- 
> 
> I happen to really like Regis. 
> 
> I really can't wait for the next chapter.


	4. A Daisy; Troubled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noctis awakes and promptly sleeps once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exams, computer trouble, heeheehoohoo. 
> 
> Enjoy I guess.
> 
> Edit: Smooshed Chapters 4 and 5 together so it would flow better. It was really bothering me.

There was an errant ringing in his ear when he awoke.

 

Noctis couldn’t exactly place what it was, maybe a remnant from dolorous dreams banging against the curtain of his consciousness, but it called to him as though it were a physical thing. The ringing spurred him out of bed, erasing his somnolence and instead stuffing his bones full of aberrant thoughts of the spires atop the Citadel. There was… something up there. Something that wanted him there. The floor was cold beneath his toes and his body wobbled from the latent effects of his headache, but he would ascend the spires if he had to.  

 

_“Chosen King...Come to me.”_

 

Okay. Noctis would come.

* * *

If it was difficult to makes heads or tails of the Citadel during the day despite the bright sunlight glittering off of every surface imaginable then Noctis downright hated navigating the massive building at night. Only the residential floors were adequately lit which meant Noctis had been fumbling around in near darkness as he tried to remember which floor the northern elevator was on. There were guards on almost every floor too, shuffling about in timed periods for optimal surveillance. The tension of the entire thing had cleared Noctis’ head a bit, his focus changing to remaining undetected more than daydreaming. It was a small mercy that his wardrobe was 75% Lucian black because he could stick to the darkest corners and not have to worry about anything unless he made a suspicious noise.

 

The only downside to all this snooping about however was the discomfort of it all.  His vision was hazy around the edges, blurred out like censored faces on a news broadcast  and even though he was absolutely certain he was awake, his body was heavier than usual. Noctis dragged his feet against the spotless tiled floors, wincing ever so often at the jolts in his knee which, at this point, were the only things keeping him walking.

 

There was shuffling from down one of the hallways; a guard? Maybe a glaive? Noctis squished himself under one of the heavy wooden desks that stood proudly against the walls of the residential floors and bit back a gasp of pain. He most definitely shouldn’t have contorted himself; especially not when his knee was already upset with him for meandering about barefooted at night, but the Crownsguard passed him by without once suspecting anything so Noctis supposed it counted as a win.

 

He carefully stretched his legs out in front of him and massaged the crest of his knee with his chilled fingers. His head had been foggy a few moments ago but the pain had sharpened his cognition a bit, clearing up the last of his uncharacteristic daze. He knew he wanted to go to the spires but Noctis, for the life of him, couldn’t put his finger on the why. His body yearned for it and it was beginning to feel like he had something much more lightweight than blood pumping through his veins but his mind was unconvinced, suspicious even.

 

The only things that were on the spires were a few of the more exotic breeds of plant from the Lucian gardens and miscellaneous bird nests which Noctis would occasionally check on to ensure that the cats hadn’t somehow clamoured up and gotten into the eggs. Why did he want to go up there so badly? He couldn’t even see anything this late in the evening. The light from the Crystal would be cool to see he supposed, but it most certainly wasn’t worth risking the headcold or the scolding he was undoubtedly going to receive when Ignis inevitably sniffed out his little excursion.  

 

_“Why do you hesitate? Come.”_

 

Oh.

 

That was why.

 

Right, the spires. Perhaps the Northern one would be best since it was the tallest. Yeah. That sounded good.

* * *

It was an uncomfortably long trip to the Northern Spire, mostly because the elevator didn’t go up to the tippy top and so Noctis had gotten off somewhere around the 50th floor before realising that he had taken the wrong elevator on the 33rd and was now in the vicinity of the spare training areas. He had wandered about for a handful of minutes, his frustration mounting with every wrong turn and hidey-hole he’d been forced to duck into to prevent detection from the guards and by the time he had circled back to the 33rd floor he was well and properly worked up.

 

This was impossible without Ignis.

 

Noctis had never really deigned to venture too far past his points of comfort when it came to the Citadel. To be quite frank, the place was just far too big for him to even consider it and as far as he knew, not even his father had explored every nook and cranny of the his own castle. He had caught sight of a clock back when he was on the 40th floor so he knew it was sometime past one in the morning and honestly, Noctis wouldn’t be able to find the right staircase without Ignis’ encyclopedic knowledge of the place.

 

On top of his frustration, his knee was aching something fierce and that itch that had settled right beneath the surface of his skin had bloomed into something of an uncomfortable fluid warmth which made Noctis feel all sorts of nauseous. He would ask Ignis to help him in the morning. For now, he would much rather he get caught so he wouldn’t have to stand on the elevator ride back down to his quarters on the 10th.

 

_“Will you abandon me, Dearest Chosen?”_

 

Noctis’ frustration prevented the veil from clouding his mind. Caustically, he harrumphed into the dark air around him, “I’m lost and tired. Call again in the morning.”

 

Oddly, amusement trickled into his mind, enveloping his senses yet refraining from overpowering his thoughts. _“So you are indeed abandoning me. How disappointing.”_

 

Despite the amusement buzzing underneath his skin, the lilting of that bellowsome voice which echoed out into the stagnant air of the Citadel around him, Noctis couldn’t stop the flinch that broke out from hearing that word. ‘Disappointing’. He was a disappointment and he hadn’t even met with the stranger in his mind.

 

Noctis felt a need to prove himself; a strange, deep-seated fury washing through his body, “I’m not ‘abandoning’ you! I’ll just… meet you later.”

 

A hard vibration rocked Noctis’ spine, causing him to exclaim chiefly from surprise, _“What guarantee have you that I shall await you on the ‘morrow?”_

 

Noctis grimaced, taking a step towards the elevator and falling flat to the floor when his knee unexpectedly buckled under his weight. His leg and back was burning, the pain lancing through his joints and pressing down against his bones. He was certain he heard footsteps coming his way and there was gratitude buried beneath the cover of almost unbearable pain. Still, the din in his head would not leave him.

 

_“Come to me.”_

 

Noctis hissed, curling in on himself as best as he could when every nerve south of his diaphragm was doing its best to fizzle, crack and spark into concentrated starbursts of agony, “I can’t-”

 

_“Find me.”_

 

And the voice was gone, and the burning in his veins was gone and all that was left was poor, pitiful, _disappointing_ Noctis, half curled and undignified on the frigid floor.

 

* * *

Ignis found him up before the sun, his face sullen and his mood resolute.

 

Noctis hadn’t gotten more than perhaps an hour’s sleep and his legs had burned all through the night until the tips of his toes were numb and buzzing. The memory of that latent heat beneath his skin, the dull echo of a siren’s song that stayed lingering in his ear, it was driving him mad. Ignis had fretted over his condition, tutting and pressing insistent hands to Noctis’ back in an attempt to coax him into getting some sleep but Noctis wouldn’t hear it. He needed to know, _needed_ to keep his word and the only way he would achieve any of that would be to get Ignis to agree to help him.

 

Of course, Ignis had immediately shut him down.

 

“Absolutely not, Your Highness,” he had said, his thin mouth frowning and his consternation plain on his face, “Your knees are much too swollen and, moreover, you need rest.”

 

Noctis resisted those gentle hands on his spine, his agitation palpable, “I need to go to the roof, Iggy. Something’s up there. I know it.”  

 

Ignis huffed, his hands ever more forceful as he rolled his eyes, “If something’s on the roof then I’ll have the Marshal deal with it. It would be irresponsible of me to let you leave this room in your condition.”

 

If it wouldn’t stir the static that had settled heavily to the bottom of his brain, Noctis would yell in frustration, “Uncle Cor can’t handle it! _I_ have to be the one to do it!”

 

“Nonsense Highness. Clearly you’re more tired than I suspected if you truly believe that--”

 

“ _Ignis._ ”

 

A soft silence filled the room then. Noctis felt cold as Ignis rescinded his gloved hand and stood at attention. Formal. Removed.

 

The Little Prince of Lucis fixed his gaze to the floor, “Sorry.”

 

Ignis didn’t move. Noctis didn’t speak.

 

A stab of pain feebly dug into Noctis’ overworked nerves and like air rushing into an infant’s lungs, Ignis had clicked back into his role. He sighed, a delicate, put-upon thing and lightly rubbed against the pale flesh of Noctis’ thigh, frowning when it remained unresponsive under his novice touch. He gave the skin a dirty look, one reserved for unnecessary flavours in his food and regarded Noctis once more, his eyes stern, “You aren’t going anywhere today.”

 

When Ignis gently pushed at Noctis’ shoulder for him to lean back into his bed, Noctis didn’t fight it.

 

He let Ignis prop his feet up, let him rub his quickly numbing legs down with oils and quietly accepted the History text that Ignis put within arms reach. When Ignis made to leave, most likely to fetch a doctor, he turned to his prince and in a gentle voice said, “Do try to get some rest, Highness.”

 

With a muted click, Noctis was left alone once more, a burning desire searing into his heart and a stifled apology dead on his tongue.

* * *

_ You didn’t come.” _

 

The sun had long dipped beyond the horizon, draping Noctis’ room in a deep darkness which comforted as much as it stifled. He had slept the day through, the painkillers and muscle relaxants pumping like mercury through his veins and fogging his head to the point of dampening his senses. The voice settled over his being like shallow water, drowning out the fog of chemical induced lethargy and replacing it with an acute awareness of his utter irritation at his current situation. 

 

“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly free to move.”

 

It was disconcerting to feel that rumbling pressure roll over his skin again, an undulating sort of vibration that was quite obviously disembodied laughter which resonated far too intimately with his sluggish blood. He could feel the absent weight of the presence settling around him, an intangible mirth filling the empty spaces of his room and buzzing about in the gaps between his joints. Noctis felt no joy from the interaction however. There was an unmistakable concern bubbling at the back of his preoccupied mind. A pertinent question that seemed to only grow more relevant with the increasing corporeal quality of their interactions. He shifted in his bed, squeezing his eyes shut in a feeble attempt to quiet the roaring in his ears, “Are you real?”

There was no discernible reaction from the air around him; just the brush of wind pressed against his windows and the too loud beat of blood in his head. Noctis would laugh if he weren’t so certain it would send him mad from the noise. The Sleeping Prince of Lucis was also insane. How perfect. Perhaps if he told his father about this new development, he would send him off and finally be able to have some time to worry about his own health in peace. 

 

Of course, that would never work. Noctis would have to keep this to himself as well, naturally. His father would only worry if he told him about the bellowing voice that burned at his skin until he could feel it in the molecules of his blood; the voice that blurred his vision and compelled him to do stupid things like walk about after curfew until his knee was so swollen that a passing glance was enough to make it burst with unspeakable pain.  

 

Yes, what an absolutely perfect development. 

 

Noctis let out a little sigh, his eyes stinging more from his feelings of idiocy than any actual discomfort. He would never get out of this stupid Citadel at this rate. 

 

_ “I am as real as your forefathers. As corporeal as the magic which runs through your veins.” _

 

The pain behind his eyes expanded, settling to the base of his neck and flaring each nerve until Noctis couldn’t bite back his pained whines. 

 

 _“You need only find me_ _and all shall become clear.”_

 

That feeling was back. The haze that muffled his thoughts and compelled him to climb to the top of the Citadel. To find whatever was waiting for him on the roof. Noctis wheezed, his breath humid with the flavour of fatigue and the struggle to remain conscientious. 

 

_ “Come to me.” _

 

“Leave me alone!” It was too much. His knees, his back, the sweltering under his skin, the heavy pain in his head-- it was just  _ too much _ and Noctis couldn’t breathe, couldn’t feel anything except oppressive discomfort which burned until the subtle pinch of numbness began bleeding into his being. He probably covered his eyes with his hands but at this point, every sensation coalesced into a singular far-off deadness which would be concerning only if Noctis weren’t so preoccupied with making everything  **stop** . He squirmed, attempting to flinch away from the source of his discomfort but only succeeding in making his bones protest with the addition of pressure, “Just leave me alone,” he mumbled pitifully, “Go away.”

 

The pressure behind his eyes eased marginally, just enough for him to inhale without his corneas recoiling as though they had been brutally impaled. 

 

Noctis counted that as a win. 

 

* * *

Morning met him wrung out and at wit’s end, a profound irritation battling with his complete resignation at the lancing numbness infecting every inch in his body.

 

He was staring at the wall when Ignis knocked quietly at the door, more out of habit than any sort of propriety. He was too tired to close his eyes but the invading light spilling in from the half open door left his retinas resonating in torment. He kept his gaze trained to the wall, unwilling to acknowledge Ignis’ presence verbally until he absolutely had to. 

 

Throughout the night, he had gotten bits and pieces of other voices, old voices rich with the tint of ancient magic and unfathomable power. Each word they spoke scorched at his heart, rousing a great unrest in every inch of vein buried under his inert flesh. His throat was parched, sandpaper soft in a way that informed him that his voice would be hoarse without him needing to say a single word. His phone had buzzed non-stop. He didn’t want to think of moving, but he had unfortunately been thoroughly convinced. 

 

“Noctis?” Ignis’ voice was cold water, grounding yet completely intrusive, “Have you been awake all night again?”

 

The only sign of recognition Ignis received was the slow slide of Noctis’ eyes as he readjusted his focal point. There was a lethargy there which stole Ignis’ breath from his chest and added three more worry lines to his somber brow. “Noctis?” he questioned softly and the fragility of his voice was appreciated, if only for the ease with which the sound slid into Noctis’ ear. 

 

He was too exhausted for guilt to even be a hint of an idea in his head, “Take me to the roof.” 

 

Instantaneously Ignis’ delicate stance sharpened, disbelief mingling with an oddly restrained fury, “Are you  _ mad? _ ” He motioned emphatically at Noctis’ wretched form and the prince in question simply blinked, silently changing his focus to his wall once more. “Noctis, you look terrible. I’m going to fetch a doctor and nothing more.”

 

His adviser turned on his heel, his body tense in aggressive and uncomfortable ways. Noctis closed his eyes, “Please.” 

 

The click of the door was emphatic. Noctis scarcely had time to consider his situation when a half-offended huff tickled at his irritated nerves. “You had better have an explanation for this.” The quiet squeak of his wheelchair being unfolded was bizarrely reassuring, “And an incredible one at that.”

 

It hurt to smile, but Noctis thought that Ignis definitely deserved it. 

 

  
  
  



	5. A Violet; Petrified

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to the roof and a short leap down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not exactly sure whether I'm happy with this chapter or not, but I finished it so there's that. 
> 
> :)

Neither of them spoke as Ignis cautiously wheeled his young lord into the elevator.

 

Noctis was in a great amount of pain, much more than he was letting on and it hurt Ignis fiercely to have no choice but to stand beside him as he stared vacantly at his laps. Ignis wasn’t sure if the roof was the right decision, it couldn’t be when he could hear his mind deriding him for not sticking to his guns and making his lord’s precarious health his number one priority; but Ignis had managed to convince himself that this wasn’t a major mistake. The only convincing he needed was Noctis’ rumpled, sallow face, two shades too white and unironed in the most distressing of ways.

 

In a way, Ignis was glad that there wouldn’t be much formal complaint in his bringing the prince out for some air. The only people who could really stop him from enacting this (terribly reckless) plan was Ulric and the Marshal himself; both of whom were currently unavailable for interference.

 

Well, the Marshal at least was reliably out of commission for the morning. Ulric’s unit had returned earlier that morning and while Ignis was well aware of the bureaucratics involved in reporting on field battles, he was just as conscientious of how skillfully Ulric could avoid said paperwork, usually passing it on to Altius in favour of climbing the Citadel’s spires (a habit he had gleefully passed on to Noctis). Ignis could avoid concrete places of interests and routine haunts, but he wouldn’t be able to account for the surprise warping of an overzealous self-proclaimed ‘older brother’ figure.

 

Thankfully, he didn’t need to.

 

They managed to get onto the roof in a timely manner, and the last of Ignis’ unease at his decision to indulge his prince was dispelled when the first peals of breeze ruffled at the boy’s hair. Noctis’ face lit up, his eyes glittering in the soft light of the Crystal’s glow and he almost immediately stretched over the arm of his wheelchair to pick a dark coloured blossom, placing the fragile thing to his nose and taking a deep inhale.

 

Noctis was at peace in nature. Even if it was a meagre, manufactured thing like the greenhouse atop the steel behemoth known as the Citadel, Noctis bloomed the moment there was a hint of fresh flowers and the buzz of life in the air. He inclined his head to get Ignis’ attention, pointing further down the pathway where the Lucian roses and Altissian geraniums were twisted about each other, “Do you think the roses have grown back?”

 

Ignis found himself smiling, pushing the wheelchair forward despite the heavy resistance of the wind, “Let’s find out.”

* * *

When they had been playing about the flowers for around ten minutes, Noctis called to attention something Ignis would’ve never noticed even if he had had prior exposure to the topic.

 

There, on the edging of the balcony of the Spire which acted as a barrier between the end of the roof and a thirty storey drop was a single, large egg.

 

The egg was large enough that Noctis had caught sight of it from beyond the balcony’s ledge. It was an odd thing, carefully rounded and off-white with curious orange speckling, and Noctis had been quick to perk up from whatever daze he had been in once he had noticed it. 

 

“Iggy,” he whispered, his eyes stuck fast to the massive thing, “Iggy, that’s not from around here.” 

 

Ignis was a bit embarrassed to admit that even though he had committed a great amount of things to memory for the sake of his young lord, Noctis’ knowledge on Lucis’ wildlife and his proficiency in telling beasts apart just from hearing or reading about them was a truly astonishing thing to behold. In that moment atop the Citadel’s roof, Noctis was no longer a shade of himself, cadaverous and frightened. The light of the Crystal illuminated his hair and eyes even in the sunlight of late morning and the angle of his focused brow injected a frisson of youth back into the pallour of his countenance. Ignis found himself exhaling, the anxious tension in his chest unravelling just a bit at the prospect that maybe, perhaps, fresh air truly was all Noctis needed to get back to being himself and there was nothing wrong with him.

 

Ignis leaned forward, unable to keep an amused smile from touching his lips, “Did you know about it before?” 

 

Noctis seemed to throw the idea around in his mind for a moment, hesitating in a manner that suggested he was considering lying, but he discarded the thought, “Not really. There’s a sparrow’s nest not too far from here--Nyx showed me,” Here, his eyes narrowed, a twist in his cracked lips betraying how difficult it was for him to formulate words, “Those eggs were abandoned because the of the cats. When I came to replenish the fire crystal last time, this wasn’t here.”

 

‘Replenish the fire crystal?’

 

Ignis blinked, straightening out his posture and putting a hand to his temples, “Noctis, have you been using magic?” 

 

His prince bristled but gave Ignis a reluctant smile, something not quite impish but far lighter than any expression he had made in the past week. It loosened that anxiety even more. “Maybe? It was just to keep the eggs warm, I swear.” 

 

Pursed lips met the unrepentant remark, a much missed headache forming behind Ignis’ eyes at Noctis’ shenanigans, “Perhaps that’s the culprit of these episodes? The doctor banned you from utilizing your magic until your injury healed completely, didn’t he?” 

 

Noctis’ expression shuttered itself off just as quickly as it was beginning to bloom, the teasing light dying in his eyes as he turned his attention back to the alien egg, “No. I don’t think so.”

 

He didn’t offer anything past that, keeping his face hidden and slouching into the back of his wheelchair. Ignis carefully didn’t acknowledge the sting of being left in the dark. Instead, he turned his attention to the elephant in the room--or rather the  _ egg _ -ephant in the room-- neatly redirecting the conversation as he straightened the non-existent wrinkles in his gloves, “What should we do then, Highness? Do you think its parent will return?” 

 

Noctis  remained quiet for a long moment, so long in fact that Ignis, just for a time, entertained the idea that maybe Noctis had fallen asleep on himself. Cautiously, he placed a hand on Noctis’ shoulder, intending to check for signs of his lord’s consciousness but instead was greeted by Noctis flinching, his eyes wide and unfocused and almost glassy-looking. 

 

The anxiety was back vengefully, something uncomfortable and looped too tightly around Ignis’ heart. He had this terrible, terrible premonition running through his veins. 

 

“Noctis?” Ignis’ voice was quiet, fragile like the child trembling in the chair beside him. He took a knee, getting to Noctis’ eye level and gently placing a hand atop his head. The prince needed something, _anything_ to ground him to reality and even though it took a moment for Noctis to properly focus in the right direction, Ignis was just relieved that he didn’t seem injured or distressed, just incredibly dazed. 

 

Carefully he took his unoccupied hand and placed his index finger in front of Noctis, “Can you follow my finger with your eyes, Highness?” 

 

The prince swallowed, a dry, audible thing that had Ignis berating himself for not bringing along water, but acquiesced, slowly trailing along with the pendulum mimicking movements of Ignis’ finger. It took a few minutes but eventually Noctis took a steadying inhale and turned his attention to the egg, his form somehow appearing even more transient. Ignis bit back a sigh, choosing instead to trust that Noctis would explain just what was going on before things got even more out of hand. 

 

“Ignis?” 

 

The brunet hummed, staying kneeled. “We should probably move the egg.” 

 

Questioning green eyes appraised Noctis’ posture, disbelief clearly written on his face, “Noct, it’ll be much too heavy-”

 

“Then we can ask for help.” 

 

Noctis raised a hand, playing with the length of his too long bangs (sometime soon, Ignis would schedule an appointment for a haircut, Noctis never liked his hair longer than his nape), “I’ll stay here and keep an eye on it. You can go get some guards and we can move it to the greenhouse with the sparrow eggs.” 

 

Immediately, Ignis’ blood screamed suspicion. 

 

He stood abruptly, an inexplicable distrust bubbling quietly in the back of his mind, “ I’m not leaving you here alone.” 

 

Noctis met his eyes and gave a sardonic half-smile that didn’t come close to reaching his eyes, “What’s the worst that can happen? It’s not like I can move myself in this thing.” 

 

They both knew that was a lie, the wheelchair could be pushed just as easily by Noctis alone. 

 

Ignis didn’t bother to verbally acknowledge that. 

 

“I don’t feel comfortable leaving you here by yourself. Your condition’s…” Ignis struggled to find an inoffensive word but Noctis cut him off with a self deprecating huff. 

 

“Unbecoming? Pathetic? Disgraceful?” 

 

Ignis sighed, shrugging off his blazer as Noctis shivered in the blistering breeze, “Concerning.” He placed the article of clothing over Noctis’ quivering torso, sighing in a bitter sort of resignation, “I’m not your enemy here Noctis. I’m merely worried about your well-being.” 

 

Noctis looked down at the jacket on him, hugging it closer to his body and biting his lip, another tell that he was contemplating lying, “I- I know that.” His fingers curled themselves into the starchy fabric.  _ Noctis  _ curled himself into the starchy fabric, “I’m just worried about the egg.” 

 

Ignis kneeled before him, pressing his forehead to the crown of Noctis’ wispy head, a motion usually reserved for sick days and nightmares, “And I’m worried about  _ you. _ ” 

 

There was silence between them for a while, something punctuated only by the low grumble of the wind and the still boiling mantra in Ignis’ head demanding that he not leave Noctis alone. Noctis broke the moment first, his thin fingers gripping onto Ignis’ cuff, “Sorry for scaring you.” 

 

If Ignis could, he would scoop his Highness up and blanket him away into the thick softness of his duvet for the rest of his days. Instead, he settled for pressing a tender kiss to Noctis’ hair, a gesture familiar enough to convey the feelings he would never be able to verbalize, “I’m not scared. Just worried. I trust you implicitly, Highness.” Here Ignis got to his feet, plastering on a polite smile that felt far more plastic than anything he had done before, “I’ll fetch a guard. Stay here.” 

 

Every bone in Ignis’ body was arguing with his decision, every nerve calling for him to stay by Noctis’ side for some unfounded, ungrounded fear of an imminent unknown event, but, for Noctis, it was worth it. 

 

“Ignis?” he called, a small smile imprinted into his lips (the disparity between his expression and his eyes had grown wider, what was he hiding?) “Thank you. For everything I mean.” 

 

Ignis returned the gratitude with sentiment of his own, breaking out into a sprint the moment the roof’s door closed behind him. 

 

That felt like a goodbye. 

 

_ Why was Noctis saying goodbye? _

* * *

Ignis wasn’t exactly sure what he was thinking, just that he needed to return to the roof as quickly as possible with someone capable of lifting a delicate egg against the wind and carrying in to the greenhouse without stumbling. 

 

Perhaps his mind had already come to decision because he found himself wandering the Bureaucratics Floor, his eyes on the lookout for one Nyx Ulric. Evidently, he didn’t have to look far, the moment he stepped past the Debriefing Hall, Ulric’s laugh was echoing through the room, followed by Altius’ reprimanding voice and the impact of paper against flesh. 

 

The scene Ignis happened upon was quite amusing, Ostium bellowing out rich chuckles while restraining a cursing Altius. Ulric seemed completely tickled by the entire ordeal, rubbing the back of his neck and snickering even as he was covered in what was undoubtedly incomplete field reports.  

 

Ulric was the first to catch sight of Ignis, his already sparkling blue eyes glowing with the prospect of interruption. He stood from the squishy employee’s sofa, neatly dodging Altius’ kicking feet to greet him, “Ignis! This is a surprise. Where’s Starlight, you taking him out for some air?” 

 

Ignis made to respond, his request hot on his lips but instead settled for a dry, “Caution Ulric.”

 

Half a second later, Altius’ heeled boot had flung itself off her foot, swinging in an unnaturally perfect arc to clip Ulric to the back of his head, prompting a wince and a whine from the Glaive in question and even more chuckles from Ostium (who looked rather like he was on the verge of choking now that Ignis actually looked at him).  Ostium let her go, doubling over on himself to catch his breath while Altius approached Ignis menacingly, her limp due to her missing shoe doing nothing to shave off her sheer presence, “You better not give this one any more reason to shirk his paperwork, Scientia. He’s got two hours, got it?” 

 

Ignis had no time to respond, for she was already stalking off past the lounge, collecting her boot from Ostium and walking right past the sad scatter of paperwork. 

 

Right then. Two hours. That was perfectly reasonable.  

 

“The prince has need of you, Ulric.”  

 

The Glaive startled minutely, perhaps not expecting that Ignis would be looking for him for ‘official’ reasons so soon after he had returned from the field, but, ever the professional, the surprise was gone from his face as quickly as it had come, leaving instead the confident eyes of an experienced soldier awaiting orders. 

 

Ignis didn’t really have time to be impressed, not when his innards were playing double-dutch with the cords of his heart. 

 

“Walk with me,” Ignis commanded, too preoccupied with his thoughts to be affronted by Ostium’s indulgent look. Ulric was one of the few adults in the Citadel who took Noctis and his whims seriously, choosing to obey Noctis’ words over the words of his neglectful and dismissive tutors and nursemaids. He seemed to understand how difficult it was to make a mark on the stubborn psyches of the Lucis Elite when they had already turned their backs on you and Ignis could respect anyone who worked to make Noctis feel accepted, even at the cost of their own reputations. 

 

“You’re the boss, kiddo.” Ulric sidled up behind him, his mouth grim and his eyes wary.

 

When they had made it to the elevators, Ignis began debriefing him, his mind half-absent as he calculated the fastest route back to the greenhouse, “His Highness discovered a peculiar egg atop the roof today. He said you have experience in such matters?”

 

Ulric visibly relaxed when the word ‘egg’ was brought up, his usual casual smile edging itself back onto his face, “Oh! Well yeah. I can handle that easy-peasy.” He dug about in his pocket and produced a curious, almost bird looking glass trinket--a whistle from the space atop it-- and showed it off, laughing quietly to himself as though it were a great secret he was divulging to Ignis, “I brought the Prince back a souvenir, y’see? It saves me a lot of time tracking down the rugrat this way.”

 

Ignis couldn’t restrain himself if he tried, “Quite. It leaves more time for clearing up your reports, doesn’t it?”

 

Ulric sighed dramatically, pushing the whistle back into his pocket, “You’re a pissant, you know that?” 

 

Ignis’ smile was all teeth, “I live to serve, Sir Ulric.”

 

They filed into the elevator and Ignis immediately felt uneasy, an unexpected chill running through him without the usual weight of his blazer on his shoulders. Ulric gave him a sharp look from beside him, rubbing the back of his neck haltingly before speaking up just as the elevator began its ascent, “So, where is the Prince anyways? I didn’t think they were letting him out of bed already.”

 

“He’s at the greenhouse right now, “  Ignis answered automatically, “The fresh air’s doing wonders for him.” 

 

Ulric seemed surprised at that, his expression dropping into something akin to honest confusion, “He’s on the roof alone? In his condition?” 

 

That stung at Ignis’ sensibilities far more than it should. He was snapping up at the Glaive before he could restrain himself, “Noctis isn’t an invalid, Ulric. He’s quite capable of keeping still for a few moments--” Ignis cut himself off, a suspicious squint twisting at his childish face, “How did you know his Highness was sick?”

 

Ulric laughed at that, focusing his attention on the elevator doors in front of them as the machine came to a halt with a pleasant ‘ding’, “Let’s just say that the walls have ears.” He came out of the elevator and hesitated before clicking the adjoining elevator buttons, looking calculatingly at the open window instead, “It’s not that I don’t trust Starlight or anything, I just don’t think he should be there alone. Especially if there's some new animal that he hasn’t seen before.” Here, Ulric spared a roguish smile in Ignis’ direction, “The kid’s kinda crazy when it comes to things like this.”

 

The boy fiddled with the buttons at his cuffs, contemplating whether he should divulge his hesitations or not. Ulric was the second best thing after the Marshal and he’d take his concerns at face value. Besides, a few moments with  Noctis as he was now would give levity to his claims, wouldn’t it? Ulric made to click the elevator button to take them to the 50th floor but Ignis stopped him, his motions disquieted despite the resolution in his mind, “In truth, I’m worried Sir Ulric.” Ignis adjusted his glasses, meeting Ulric’s attentive gaze, “Noctis has displayed a number of concerning behaviours as of late. He’s isolating himself as well.” 

 

Ulric hummed thoughtfully and after a second of mulling it over, he unsheathed one of his kukri and extended his hand to Ignis, “C’mon, the elevator’ll take too long. We’ll go the expressway. Just to make sure the kid doesn’t do anything dumb.” 

 

Ignis had never warped before, didn’t even have a clue about how it would feel, but the quicker he could get back to Noctis’ side, the quicker he could dispel this terrible frothing in his gut. 

* * *

Ulric was inhuman and Ignis hated him. 

 

Warping was an indescribable travesty; a motion which had Ignis throwing up today’s, yesterday’s, and the day before’s meal while stemming a nosebleed and praying for something more instantaneous like death. They had gotten to the Eastern entrance of the greenhouse in two motions, yes, but Ignis couldn’t tell which way was up and whether the shaking under his fingers was his vertigo or a legitimate earthquake. Ulric for his part, just laughed good-naturedly, as though Ignis’ imminent demise was something to josh about. 

 

The Glaive waited for the worst of Ignis’ disorientation to bleed away and led the way to the Northern Spire, his smirk plastered to his face at Ignis’ every stumble and sway. The child couldn’t do very much to retaliate or dismiss Ulric’s steadying hands, not when he felt as though he was on a storm swept dinghy, so he settled instead for hatching a plot to lace laxatives in the next batch of cookies he had for the man. They couldn’t arrest him for such a mild case of poisoning, after all. 

 

Ulric’s smirk dropped when the dark bannisters of the Spire became visible, a distinct apprehension tensing his bones instead.

 

It took Ignis a lethargic moment to focus his eyes in the direction Ulric was staring in, but even with the edges of his vision still blurry, he could make out the picture just fine. 

 

Noctis was there, perched atop the thin width of the bannister’s surface seemingly staring into the light of the Crystal. Later Ignis would blame his disorientation, or maybe he would say it was the adrenaline and shock mixing into a noxious cocktail of impulses and no control, but there was really no proper excuse for his actions. 

 

There was his prince, balanced delicately on the edge of wrought iron and Ignis, the one sworn to stay by his side, the one who was supposed to be the good sense of their dynamic,  _ shouted _ . 

 

“NOCTIS!”

 

It happened in slow motion almost, the moment Ignis opened his mouth. Noctis startled badly, sharply turning his head  in their direction and losing his balance. He was slipping before any of them knew what was going on, his hand off the bannister and grasping empty air which flung the rest of the body over the edge and down, down  _ down _ \--

 

Ulric was gone in a flash, the dull ‘thunk’ of his kukri hitting Noctis’ wheelchair barely registering in Ignis’ head. The man was cursing, taking not even a moment to breathe before he threw his kukri over the edge in pursuit of the prince, disappearing with a desperate snarl etched into the flesh of his face. 

 

Ignis stayed glued to his spot, his hands wrapped over his mouth and his limbs trembling. 

 

Noctis’ eyes had been a poisonous purple before he fell. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder if you all have pieced together who's bothering Noctis?


	6. A Daisy; Honoured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long-awaited answers and the questions they reinforce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm... really happy with how this turned out. 
> 
> Hopefully you enjoy it just as much!

When Noctis falls, he forgets to feel fear. 

Ignis’s shout had been unexpected, something that had pierced through the heavy fog that had curled its way into Noctis’ head and settled at the bottom of his brain. It was a familiar feeling now, that presence which dulled everything but the flaring heat in Noctis’ veins, and Noctis hadn’t realized that he was perched on the banister before he was losing his balance and catapulting down into the gentle glow of the Crystal’s light. Even though the hard steel of the Crystal’s safe was fast approaching, Noctis’ heart never stuttered. In fact, he had never felt safer. The Crystal’s light was soft, the caress of warm hands he had never felt before, a vision of a home he had never been to with nostalgia that was his but wasn’t. 

He wasn’t surprised when he felt himself being plucked from the air, the reverberating in his bones already betraying the identity of his rescuer even if Noctis didn’t have a name to pin to the voice.  

_ “So you have come.” _

Even though Noctis didn’t recognise the swirling scape around them, even though he couldn’t put a finger on the weightlessness of his limbs or the sweet burning under his skin; this was home--a part of him, something almost indistinguishable from the magic rushing through his bones. His eyes were wide with wonder as he took in the rushing colours surrounding him. It wasn’t somber and drenched in blacks and greys like everything else under the sun linked to the Lucis. Instead the colours were… pastel; pinks and blues and oranges dancing into each other like celestial fabrics caught in a cosmic dance. Sprinkled amongst the sea of colour were stars-- real, glittering  _ stars  _ which twinkled with friendly light and a life that simply didn’t suit the image Noctis had of the grumbling, vibrating, painful voice that had been haunting him. 

_ “It was unexpected that you find your way into the Crystal this early, but I am pleased that you have kept your word.” _

Speaking of unexpected, Noctis had not noticed that he was standing (standing? He was definitely upright but the soles of his feet did not touch the surface of the palms he was solidly bracketed into. Was it still standing then?) in the palms of a mountainous figure-- a spill of Lucian ink and colour against the soft swirl of magic surrounding them. The greys and golds and deep, deep blacks pulled Noctis’ mind back to the pertinent, the figure who had plucked him from his imminent demise and whose presence was encroaching on Noctis’ skin like the muggy heat of Lucian summer. Noctis followed the armoured palm up and up past rivers of heavy fabric and draped, ornate steel until he found his breath hitching, the latent buzzing in his veins roaring to life in a static that both thrilled and terrified.

His name was Bahamut and he was awe-inspiring. 

From Noctis’ position cupped in his hands, he could see into the growling maw of his deep blue armour, could see the face of a man who emblemized the most stalwart of dragons and yet, Noctis felt no fear. Bahamut’s eyes were the things of nightmares; piercing silver which glowed past even the eternal shadows cast on his visage by his armour, eyes which appraised and assigned judgement all in a single once-over. Here, in this strange vortex of energy that was both familiar and distinctly not his own, Noctis could spare no thought to title or etiquette; not when the warmth just beneath his skin resonated with the primal humming of magic surrounding them both-- not when the Draconian seemed to approve of the fearlessness in Noctis’ bones. 

_ “O Chosen King of Lucis,”  _ When he spoke, his voice rumbled under the weight of his own power, the vibrations that Noctis had previously been victim to seeming like diluted aftershocks of a great tremor,  _ “Fate itself has conspired against you; endearing you to the forces of Death and making a fragrant offering of your flesh.” _

‘Chosen King’. That title felt weighted, like there was something more to it than a simple slip of the tongue or cursory reverence. Bahamut had greeted him like that before too, and loathe as Noctis was to remember, so did the voices that had begun haunting his dreams. 

_ “For eons I have stood watch over your lineage, anticipating the time when the Crystal’s blessed light would shine upon the world and cultivate the perfect vessel for its purifying light,”  _ Noctis’ breath hitched as Bahamut’s eyes positively shone; the open disdain in their sterile light betraying the stoicism of the Astral’s expression,  _ “I will not idle by as the precious meagre time you have been afforded is squandered.”  _

Noctis was confused for lack of a better word. Surrealism aside, it sounded as though Noctis would be… dying soon. Sooner than even his father from the urgency in Bahamut’s eyes. He had questions of course, so many questions that he was feeling dizzy just trying to choose one to pitch at the Draconian, but eventually he sat himself down on the cool metal of Bahamut’s armoured palm and settled on the simplest one he could think of, “Why?” 

The Astral didn’t seem bothered by the open ended request,  _ “Even I cannot fathom the inner workings of the Crystal’s will. I merely arbit on its behalf.” _

Noctis peered up at Bahamut’s ginormous face, his expression suspicious but his tone just shy of accusatory, “So the Crystal told you to call me here?” 

That seemed to garner some amusement from the great God, his stony expression splintering for a heartbeat as he considered the question,  _ “It is no longer convenient for you to continue mired in a veil of ignorance. You are the culmination of millenia of sacrifice. You are the last hope for this star. This is what inspired my call.”  _

That… didn’t answer Noctis’ question. It sounded like Bahamut and the Crystal were separate entities, they felt separate too what with the Crystal’s power warm and all encompassing where Bahamut’s energy was all imposing, frigid energy. Noctis could vaguely remember Luna spinning tales to him of the Astrals, of her speaking of the Draconian with respect in her melodious voice as she conjured the image of the head of the Six; a deity whose voice seemed to exist only for the will of Crystal to be verbalized through. Perhaps Noctis was overthinking things then. The air around them both was welcoming, thick enough that Noctis could curl into and comforting enough that the young prince was convinced that he could endlessly chase sleep. Perhaps Bahamut called Noctis here of his own volition, but the Crystal didn’t mind the willful show of autonomy.  

That brought to light an entirely different set of concerns however. “I thought only the Oracle could talk to the Astrals?” 

The glow of Bahamut’s eyes changed, same with the static clinging to Noctis’ skin; if the prince didn’t know any better he would’ve thought the deity amused,  _ “It would be a matter of great inconvenience indeed if the Kings of Lucis could not commune with the Gods of this world without the light of the Oracle.” _

Noctis squinted at that, his confusion plainly evident on his face, “What do Luna and Lady Sylva do then?” A vague memory stirred in the back of his mind, Luna’s gentle face as she spoke of hoping to meet an Astral someday, “And what about the covenants?” 

_ “The Oracle is the mouthpiece of us Six. It is by her light that the world is made known of our presence and it is by her light that the Scourge is mitigated. You, Chosen King, and the Kings of Yore who ruled before you do not fall within the boundaries of her jurisdiction. The Light of the Crystal flows freely within your veins and that Light binds us to you intimately.” _

“And the covenants?”

_ “Formality.”  _

Noctis blinked. That was an outright lie. “The last Lucian King to see an Astral without the assistance of his Oracle was  _ the _ Oracle King. According to the legends, we’re treated just like every other person.” 

Well, with silence. Noctis knew that his father hadn’t obtained the mark of Bahamut and the deity lived in the Citadel with them, and from the little he had learned while he was in Tenebrae, neither had grandfather Mors. Neither of them had worked particularly closely with their Oracles either; something that was a bit odd but Noctis understood completely. Niflheim had been doing its best to keep Tenebrae isolated after all. 

Bahamut’s amusement seemed to grow at Noctis’ assertion, the quality of his gaze changing once again to something sharper, more focused,  _ “Let me rephrase then. It is mere formality to you, the Chosen King. You who were handpicked by the Crystal itself needs no covenant to gain our support. You, like us, are an extension of the Crystal’s divine will.”  _

Noctis bristled at that, a chill settling in his stomach where the warm non-weight of magic sat before, “You keep calling me that. ‘Chosen King’,” the words were sour on Noctis’ tongue; a bitterness that juxtaposed the way the magic within seemed to vibrate with assent, “What am I?” 

The silver in those other-worldly eyes dulled to a stormy grey, the hardened edge of displeasure. Noctis was suddenly made aware of how easily the Draconian could crush him in his palm.  _ “I have already made it abundantly clear, Chosen King of Light. On this, I shall not repeat myself until you have made peace with this duty.”  _

Noctis couldn’t help it, he flinched. A full bodily shudder that had him tucking his head between his hitched shoulders and sucking in a shaky breath, “Does it mean that I’ll have to die?” 

Stalwart silver, a shade closer to gunmetal than starlight,  _ “Many have sacrificed all for the King. As such, the King must sacrifice all for many.”  _

“When?” 

_ “Time flows of its own will, unburdened by all.”  _

“When.”

There was silence between them,  _ “Soon.”  _ Bahamut seemed disgruntled, whether because he didn’t have a specific date or because of Noctis’ insistence, he didn’t know.  _ “Once, the prophecy had revealed all, but events have shifted. Death now favours you.” _

Noctis took a moment to ponder that. 

He knew of course, of the goddess Etro and her chaotic past. He knew that she was the patron of the Lucis Caelum, that the long bloody history of his family and the somber weight of the destinies of kings past were nothing but offerings to her, but, for the first time since falling, Noctis felt fear. A dark, oozing fear which dribbled sticky-sweet down the nerves of his spine and splintered away into numbness somewhere around the vicinity of his scar. A niggling had taken place under his skin, an itch just waiting to be scratched. 

“The voices-” Noctis started, hesitant but not at all halting, “Is that why Carbuncle can’t make them go away?” 

Bahamut was quiet. He seemed to be earnestly considering Noctis’ question, and the lack of a prompt answer was blood-freezing. Eventually Bahamut’s eyes lightened to a soft sheen, neutral, removed.  _ “Pray to your goddess for answers, O Chosen. This concerns me not.”  _ Bahamut paused again, his attention split for a moment before he focused solidly on Noctis once more,  _ “Better yet, speak to the current King. Perhaps his wisdom would be best.”  _

Noctis didn’t have much time to consider it, not when Bahamut’s attention was suddenly on some far point of the swirling cocoon of magic around them. He raised his hand, shaking Noctis’ balance before laying it flat to the wall(?) of the vortex of colour,  _ “Our time together has come to an end. When next we meet, you shall be beyond the wall of the Crystal, it would not do for you to be saturated in the Crystal’s magic so prematurely.”  _

Noctis wanted to ask after what Bahamut meant, but movement from just past the veil of sparkling blue caught his attention. 

“Bahamut! Bladekeeper!--” 

Oh. It was his father. Noctis  _ had _ fallen from the roof, hadn’t he? 

He stepped forward, shuffling up the sparkling surface of Bahamut’s index finger before turning around and throwing the stoic Draconian a smile, “Thank you for catching me.” 

With that he crossed the veil, the chill of the crystarium’s heavy air replacing the warmth of the Crystal’s magic. 

“Noctis?! Oh  _ thank the Six  _ you’re okay.” Before Noctis could really comment, his father had scooped him up in his arms and was squeezing the life out of him. The residual magic left Noctis feeling light, floaty; like he would get picked up by a stray wind if he was untethered and so he returned his father’s grip as best he could, a sigh of relief falling from his lips. 

His father was talking, something with a reprimanding flavour, but Noctis couldn’t really parse it together, not with his limbs feeling like stretched taffy and his eyelids like weighted wings. 

"Noctis? Nocti--” His father’s voice was watery, distorted. Noctis was tired. 

 

Tired? 

 

Sleeping. 

 

Sleep. 

* * *

When Noctis awoke, it was to the sound of his electronic heartbeat and the clamminess of his father’s too big hand against his cold palm.

Consciousness was slow to return to him, a gradual progression of awareness that filtered past the lethargic weight of Noctis’ thoughts and the muddled nature of his dulled nerve responses. There was a vivid image splayed behind Noctis’ closed eyelids; the airy feeling in his limbs seeming wholly less concerning than the ephemeral flickers of cognizance that painted a more distressing picture the more he fought to pay attention to his surroundings.

His father’s humid hand was perhaps not his father’s at all. It was large and familiar yes, but it was calloused in all the wrong places. The whisper of fabric that kissed Noctis’ cold fingers didn’t feel like the fine velvet of his father’s suit nor did it resemble the heavy, starchy leather of his cape. Instead it was smooth polyester. Noctis could barely feel his fingers but he gave what he hoped was a cursory wiggle, trying to coax a verbal response from his bedside sentinel.

“Awake are you?”

Uncle Cor then.

Noctis wanted to open his eyes, really he did, but everything felt weighted in an alien, uncomfortable way. The most he could do was faintly flutter his eyelashes and even that seemed to send a pulse of lethargy straight to the marrow of Noctis’ bones. It felt like he hadn’t slept in a century; or, more likely, that he had slept  _ for _ an entire century. He could feel the press of a presence that was cold but recognizable; a chill just outside of his periphery that stirred an instinctual wariness in Noctis’ mind but the oppressive lassitude of his senses made even his breathing feel like belated chore. Still, even past the depressing numb, Noctis could detect an all too familiar soreness that stretched from the middle of his spine all the way to the tips of his unresponsive little toes.

A part of his half-started brain wondered if this was because of the magic he had absorbed in the Crystal. Noctis didn’t think it was too much of a big deal, but he could feel it under his skin; a gentle bubbling whose sensation felt three sizes too big for his small frame to contain. He hoped it wouldn’t have some negative effect on him in the future. 

Cor gently squeezed his hand, an uncharacteristic tenderness to the action that drew Noctis out of his listless ponderings. The Marshal was a man of structure and pragmatism. He treated everything with the same distant unyielding edge and even though he openly favoured Noctis, he was always careful to not pamper him. For a very long time, Noctis had simply assumed it was because Cor had forgotten how to be delicate. Even when he had been broken in two and bleeding out, Uncle Cor’s hands had been nothing but firm where his father’s had been trembling. Uncle Cor was crude, sure, but he was consistent. This softness did not suit the stern Marshal whose vaguely amused aqua eyes were so clearly outlined in Noctis’ mind’s eye and that scared him.

Was there something wrong with him?

Of course, he couldn’t ask as much; not when his body had decided to unceremoniously become as agreeable as months old honey, but still Noctis hoped that he could at least force out a sound of frustration. 

The only thing that greeted him was the steady tone of the heart monitor. Noctis tried not to feel trepidation. It helped that the only feeling his body seemed willing to register at the moment was sleepiness.  

“I know I’m probably not who you want sitting here,” Uncle Cor’s voice was as composed as ever; the rough, familiar tone working wonders on Noctis’ twisted nerves, “His Majesty’ll be here soon. Probably trying to convince those idiots on the Council to let him off for a few days to be with you.”

Noctis wanted to open his mouth and say that he was glad Cor was the one here to keep him company. He didn’t… exactly want to deal with his dad at the moment. He remembered the way his father’s face was twisted in an aggressive sort of desperation when he had rushed into the crystarium, a reddish glow in his eyes illuminating the frenzy in his motions. Even past the thick veil of the  Crystal’s walls, Noctis could feel the weight of his father’s thunderous desire to see him safe. For a moment, Noctis was even convinced that Dad would’ve fought Bahamut for him if it came down to it. 

He didn’t think he was ready to face his father’s anger for pressuring Ignis to take him to such a dangerous part of the Citadel in his condition. And if, by some miracle, his father wasn’t outright upset with him, then he would surely be disappointed in him for keeping things to himself; moreso because his secrets had resulted in him on the thin edge of a brittle banister sixty-four odd storeys above ground. 

Noctis mentally groaned; speaking of disappointment, what was he going to tell Ignis? He was certain Ignis would get reprimanded for bending to Noctis’ will to his detriment and that meant Ignis would be stiff and professional and  _ gross _ for Noctis couldn’t imagine how long before he relaxed around him again. The thought brought back lazy echoes of Bahamut’s words; of  his status as The Chosen King. If Noctis had the energy for it, he would shudder. Luna had briefly spoken about it during their time together, the King the Prophecy spoke of; the one who was destined to rid the world of the Plague once and for all. Another title to add to Noctis’ dossier. 

Another responsibility he didn’t want.

"I get the feeling you can hear me,” Uncle Cor said, “Even if you can’t, Clarus once said speaking helps so I’ll say it now.” The palm tightened around his numbed fingertips, “Don’t pull anymore stunts like that, kid. You’ve got a castle full of people worrying about you.” 

Quite suddenly, the Marshal’s hand felt cold around his. 

It was always so easy for Noctis to forget that people didn’t really care about him, the person. Uncle Cor was his protector, but he was also his handler, a reliable set of eyes to ensure that the future of Lucis didn’t accidentally kill himself chasing sparrows. Ignis was his friend, (well, Noctis thought of Ignis as a friend, he wasn’t sure if that was true for  _ Ignis _ ) but he was also his future attendant and insurance that  Noctis wasn’t be adversely affected by the clinical nature of preparation for the crown he would one day wear. Even Bahamut had referred to him as something less than a person; an ‘extension of the will of the Crystal’ he had said. Matter-of-factly, like it was only natural that Noctis and his responsibilities were lumped together as one entity, like Noctis’ worth was the weight of an arbitrary title and anything more or less simply didn’t exist. He found himself wishing, just for a moment, that he had been alone when he regained consciousness. 

“Nyx cursed himself until he bit his tongue looking for you; warped until he was blue in the face. I suspect he’s still outside the door right now. No one knew where you were, just that you had fallen and--” Uncle Cor hesitated. It was strange that he was being so chatty, usually visits from him meant comfortable silence and hawkish looks, but Noctis didn’t have the energy to think any deeper than shallow concern. “Well, let’s just say that the King’s making sure that there aren’t any repeat performances.” 

The sticky lethargy still hadn’t abated from his body but Noctis wished he could pull his hand from the Marshal’s grip. 

…

Well, maybe that was a bit harsh. 

Noctis wasn’t sure if the Marshal was here as a soldier or his godfather but anything was better than being allowed to wake in an empty room like he had the first time he had roused himself from his coma. Anything was better than that isolation, the sheer coldness of an empty hospital bedside chair. Even a faceless, nameless Guard was better than the whispering fear that maybe, perhaps, no one cared about Noctis at all because now, he was damaged goods; breakable, over-delicate, more liability than benefit. Noctis couldn’t begrudge Uncle Cor for doing his duty, no matter how much it stung because that meant he was still of use, still valuable. 

It meant he wouldn’t be abandoned and left to drown under the weight of expectations he would never be able to fulfil. 

Uncle Cor’s warm, battered hand reminded him that things could be worse. The fatigue weighing down his body reminded him that he could still  _ feel _ . The broken up train of thoughts trudging through Noctis’ almost indisposed mind meant that he could still think. Things were okay. He would be  _ okay _ . 

A quiet had fallen in the room. The only thing Noctis could perceive past Cor’s weirdly notched thumbs caressing the skin between his thumb and index fingers was the steady thumping of his heart monitor and he found himself appreciating the tentative peace. There were few things that Noctis preferred Cor over his father for, especially in the comfort department, but the Marshal understood the importance of space and of silence.  In the pockets of time they shared like this, Noctis could amuse himself with his ongoing list of differences between Cor and his father. 

His father was the personification of excellence. It was a veneer of kingly elegance that never completely dropped, not even in between those awkward smiles and ignoble laughs reserved only for Noctis. His father was unable to relax, unable to steal moments of time and make peace for himself and it was something that worried Noctis something fierce. 

In contrast, Cor’s steadiness made Noctis feel at peace in a way his father’s heavy shadow never could. 

Noctis knew it was wrong of him, but whenever he looked at his father all he saw were the stifling expectations of the people of Lucis. It was a constant pressure, that inescapable duty that enshrouded his father’s gentle shoulders and proved heavier to bear than any mantle; it terrified him more than any daemon of the night could ever hope to. Uncle Cor was a calm in the tempest. He was a legend, yes, but no one expected Noctis to  _ be _ him. There would only ever be one Grand Marshal Cor Leonis and it would be foolish for people to assume some crippled, half dead princeling would one day become as skilled with a katana as the Marshal just because he spent a large amount of time with him.

That simple luxury; the fact that Noctis was allowed to be himself in Cor’s presence, to be an entity all his own and not have to deal with the knowledge that everyone in the kingdom was praying that he would one day wake up and be Cor Leonis… that would always be why he would prefer to spend time with the Marshal over his father.

Not that he would ever say any of that anyway.

The Marshal’s hand shook a bit, the careful motions stirring Noctis’ out of his thoughts. “There is good news to come from all of this I suppose,” he said and his voice was a mere murmur, something with less bite to it, “In two or three weeks, we’ll be making that trip to Hammerhead. Maybe the fresh air’ll do you some good.” When Cor spoke next his voice was low, a botched attempt at a comical stage whisper from a man unfamiliar with the finer details of overt comedy, “The bad news is that His Grace has decided to tag along. I probably won’t get the chance to show you how to swing a sword with His Royal Motherness hovering about, but if I do figure something out, you’ll be the first to know.”

Noctis thought he’d be happier, honestly. More tangibly excited. All he could feel was tired though, wrung out from the buzzing under his skin and the thoughts whirring in his mind. He thought he could hear the sound of a door opening, of a familiar voice that seemed to agitate the energy in Noctis’ body; but he didn’t pay it any mind. 

Soon, he’d be going to Leide with his uncle and his father. He’d be far away from the stuffy Citadel and he would be able to feel sunshine on his face and he could forget, if just for a moment, about the lengthy cord of duty tightening itself around his neck. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	7. A Fleur-de-Lys; Reflective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories of the past intersecting with happenings of the future; a King makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S BEEN SEVEN HUNDRED YEARS BUT I AM, IN FACT, ALIVE. 
> 
> God, this chapter battled me every step of the way and then sometime in the middle of trying to sort chapter 7 out, the entire trajectory of the story changed so y'know ripperoni. 
> 
> Anyway, I'm on the floor, and am preparing to die--thanks.
> 
> Have fun with the chapter!

_“Regis, what does it mean to be King?”_

_The night before them was dark, black and brittle and thick enough that the stars refused to show their faces. His father had called him away from the medical tents for a chat and though Regis knew it was immature, knew that this conversation could likely be their last, he couldn’t help but be upset._

_He had been blessed with another vision before they left for the Outer Wall, just a simple dream of Aulea's serene face matted with sweat and warped from exhaustion, but it had been a vision nevertheless. Naturally, he had wanted to stay in Insomnia with her, to protect her from whatever force would come to slay her in her sleep, but his father had been insistent and, in the end, Regis had packed his things and taken his men and rode off to the Outlands to protect his people._

_And, naturally, every night the vision would descend upon him once more, revealing more and more details of the gruesome scene until Regis could scarcely close his eyes without hearing the phantom whispers of a woman he emphatically knew was not with child. Day in and day out, he and his father and their men did battle with Niflheim and with each passing day, the crushing inevitability of defeat was becoming ever more oppressive. Their soldiers fell like flies in the face of Niflheim’s new technology and though Regis was skilled in the healing and protective arts, he alone could not hope to save the lives of their entire battalion--not when the Nif battleships could burn away acres of land in single strokes._

_Even with these realities, with his hands buried to the elbows in the blood and ichor of those he had vowed to protect with his power, he couldn’t shake that vision of Aulea laying in a plush bed, her features fair and delicate. Couldn’t shake the tang of blood on his tongue, the heavy scent of sweat in the air. Couldn’t get rid of the echoing of a baby’s cry in his ear._

_The distance had made him antsy and every man that he lost on those beds in the tents brought back flashes of scent and colour and--Gods forbid--sound from that dream. Tonight too, he had lost another soldier, a young man from Duscae by the name of Phillip Wesk, who had looked him in the eye before he took his last breath and told him with a smile that it had been ‘an honour’ serving at Regis’ side. All that he could do was pray that Etro had mercy on Phillip’s soul and he hadn’t been able to do even that because his father had summoned him._

_Mors’ broad shoulders were all that faced him when he met him on a little stretch of land a few meters away from the main camp. That mantle was a familiar trigger of Regis’ agitation,  a reminder that Mors never looked_ at _him, only ever bothered to meet Regis’ eyes if his actions were interrupting whatever ‘big picture’ he was stubbornly monitoring,“Is that all? Father, I have men to tend to, we can talk later.”_

_He made to leave, his fists balled as he considered the infinite amount of things he could’ve gotten done in the time it had taken for him to get to the meeting point but his father’s voice rang out behind him, “Answer the question, boy.”_

_There was stress building in the back of Regis’ mind, irritation tight in his muscles but he took a breath and he faced his father’s back (always his back, always on the verge of leaving him behind, always casting that damn_ shadow _), “To be a King is to protect and provide for your people, no matter what.”_

_Neither of them spoke for a moment, Regis balefully glaring at the grass squashed beneath his father’s heavy boots and Mors doing he alone knows what. The longer he stood there, the more Regis felt like the tension in his bones would splinter something. He had patients to tend to, time sensitive situations to get his hands on and he had yet to check in with Clarus and the rest of his personal retinue. Six, he didn’t even know if they had made it back in one piece. Clarus he knew would be fine, the mule of a man would crawl back to his side with only the fringes of his fingernails if he had to, and Cid was too much of an idiot to actually kick the blasted bucket but Weskham was still unsteady with his guns and Cor… Cor was so young. The point was, he was wasting time and it seemed like his ‘Honourable’ father had no intentions of actually getting to the heart of the matter._

_He exhaled, folding his arms, “What? Was that answer not to your liking, Your Majesty?”_

_Silence. Stillness. That broad, unconquerable back with its wide, mocking mantle._

_Regis grit his teeth._

_“I have work to do, come find me when you actually intend to talk.” And he stalked off, really walked off. Put one foot in front of the other and everything. He was half expecting his father’s deep voice to stop him once more, but he walked on, leaving the dark, oppressive night behind him and heading towards the light of the campgrounds._

* * *

Insomnian nights were no longer cold. 

That or, on top of everything else, he was beginning to catch fever. 

Regis sighed, reclining into his plush chair and closing his eyes for a moment. He had lied to Clarus earlier, telling him that he’d head to bed (and even feigning sleep for a few minutes) before immediately kicking the sheets off and heading to his study. Sleep was risky right now and to tell the truth, Regis couldn’t remember the last time he had been able to take a breath without feeling that sinking-clawing-itching in his magic that meant the Lucii had... _opinions_. As the days went by, they became more and more insistent and the magic in Regis’ body had begun to burn from the exertion of keeping them at bay. It was an extra stress he hadn’t had to deal with since he was thirty, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep them at bay. 

In quite the unkingly motion, Regis rest his forehead down on the laquered wood of his desk with a dull thud. Two weeks. He hadn’t been able to sleep for longer than half an hour in two weeks. The Old Kings were nosy bastards with infinite power and nothing but free time and Regis had been quite sure they all hated him by this point, something they had solidified themselves when they banned him from activating the Old Wall. After Galahd and the founding of the Kingsglaives, he had never so much as felt the weight of the Ring on his finger and now, suddenly it was like he had delivered them Aldercapt’s head on a blood-stained platter.

He should’ve taken Titus up on that offer of drinks. Then again, no amount of alcohol was worth the headache of having to listen to a piece of jewelry critique his legislation.

As it were, he couldn’t remember anything important happening in the past fortnight outside of Sylva’s surprise proposal and the insistence of the council for him to accept it. The entire thing was surreal in his opinion--Sylva herself already had two children and was never one for the more domestic aspects of marriage--and whatever political boon marrying Lucis to Tenebrae would have would be crushed underfoot by the Empire if they caught wind of this situation. It was over risky, foolhardy, not at all like Sylva. Furthermore, if she had had some sort of plot then she had five months to share it with him. She had said nothing. 

The entire thing was _strange_. 

Regis sat up, pulling the proposal to read through it for what felt like the fiftieth time. 

A flash of pain behind his eyes had him squinting. He took another handful of minutes to gather himself, huffing as he caught the glint of the Ring on his finger. 

Six, sometimes he genuinely wished he had chosen Bahamut’s blessing instead of Etro’s.

…

 _Noctis._  

The reason behind the Ring suddenly flaring to life, the reason why Regis was having all of these phantom pains and aches--Noctis’ tenth birthday was coming up. He slapped his forehead down onto the table more forcefully this time, muttering curses beneath his breath. Bad enough that Noctis was a fourth generation Etro-born, bad enough that he had only recently begun to recover from his near-death experience, the boy was also the Chosen King. All of that culminated in the Ring of the Lucii being far more attuned to his feelings and whims than it would be to Regis’, especially since the Lucii themselves had rejected him.  

Gods, that explained the sudden bouts of exhaustion. He had been meaning to speak to Noctis about some of the specifics of his Coming of Age ceremony but he just hadn’t found the time. Now that something like this had come up, he would have to make the time. The Lucii didn’t exactly understand the concept of ‘gentle’ and Noctis was a willful child. He’d break the Ring himself if he so much as heard whispers of them interfering with his son. 

In the meantime, he peeled his face off of the proposal letter, incredibly sure that he’d have words stained into the skin of his cheeks. 

The only way he’d be able to speak to Sylva personally and get to the bottom of this madness would be to see her in person, and it seemed like accepting was the quickest way to get that accomplished. 

* * *

_“Sacrifice.”_

_“Excuse me?”_

_Regis had been reading in his quarters, trying his best to stave off those dreams with paragraph after paragraph of Old Lucian spells when the voice of is father startled him out of his focus. He looked up and his breath dug its heels into the walls of his throat and refused to move another inch._

_He had his father’s eyes._

_“To be a King,” Mors said and he took his great, broad body and folded it onto the tiny fold-up lounge chair Clarus had left in the room from dinner, “one must understand sacrifice.”_

_Regis didn’t say anything, just gawped at the gentle green of his father’s eyes, at the straight nose and flat jaw. The Lucis Caelum was a concentrated bloodline and their features were distinct from progenitor to progeny but Regis hadn’t seen his father’s face in so long that he had...convinced himself that they looked nothing alike._

_“And,” Mors didn’t put a hand on his son’s shoulder but it seemed like he wished he could, “to be a  Lucian king, one must become a sacrifice.”_

_Regis looked down at his father’s large hands, at his fair skin, at his wild mane of inky hair--one of the few traits Regis hadn’t inherited from the pool of dominant genes-- and he said the first thing that came to his mind, “You suck at apologizing, old man.” And, would you look at that, Clarus could just go right ahead and add ‘Grand master of Composure and Eloquence’ in his dossier, “This isn’t going to make up for forcing me to leave Aule--”_

_His father’s voice was stifling, “I’m not apologizing, Regis. This is more important than you and yours.”_

_Any sort of rational thought or awe in Regis’ mind flew out of the window at those words. There was the man he knew and loathed. There it was, outlined for him in bright bold letters and underlined in red. “And what in the Six is that supposed to mean?”_

_Mors closed his eyes, “Regis--”_

_“No! My entire life I’ve listened to what you wanted, I even chose to serve Etro when you told me to and ended up like_ this _! Nothing  I do is enough for you! I’m fighting here instead of being back home where I could protect the woman I love because_ you _asked me to and now you’re lecturing me about sacrifice?!”_

_“Son--”_

_Regis’ eyes were burning, felt like they were going to catch fire and burn right out of his skull, “_ Don’t you dare call me that. _You’ve_ never _treated me like a son.” Mors stretched out his arm, but Regis dodged out of the way, “I’ve always been a statistic to you, another rung in the court, another fucking_ variable _for you to manipulate.”_

_Regis couldn’t believe he was actually tearing up for this bastard. He was distinctly aware that he was breathing shallowly, knew enough about himself to know that if he got any more worked up that he ran the risk of summoning some unsavoury magic, but he just couldn’t believe the audacity of this man._

_Those (his, his eyes looked just like that--Gods was he going to be like this when he had his son?) piercing green eyes were calm, “How many lives have you saved?”_

_His mind tripped, “W-What?”_

_“Just how many lives do you think you’ve saved just by being here?”_

_“I don’t know? Twenty? What does that have to do with anything?”_

_Mors actually looked a bit taken aback at that, like he wasn’t expecting such a meagre number and Regis couldn’t focus on keeping himself under control when all that was going through his head was_ fury _-_

_“Regis, you’ve saved well over two hundred men these past two days alone.”_

_And damn it, his mind just wasn’t on his side tonight, “Stop lying--”_

_His father took a step forward making the already small tent seem positively claustrophobic, “No one expected the ambush at the Outer Wall. We would’ve been routed there and then if you hadn’t shared your magic with your retinue.”_

_“You hate that I’ve shared magic with everyone.”_

_Mors sighed, “I still hate it. But it saved lives. It gave us a fighting chance. Do you think that could’ve happened if you were back home in Insomnia losing sleep over something that probably won’t happen for a few more years?”_

_And Regis felt a hard stab of aggression thrust itself into his heart, “It doesn't matter how many of them I save. They aren’t her.”_

_Mors stretched out his big, broad arms and shepherded Regis into his embrace, “The path of a King is a lonely, terrible thing, Regis. You must be ready to discard everything for the sake of your people.”_

_And Regis could feel his anger simmer just under his skin, not quite evaporating but definitely not receding either, “I’m human, old man. There are things I want too.”_

_When Mors stepped back, his eyes were so incredibly sad, “A Lucian King can neither want nor indulge.”_

_“A Lucian King is just that, Lucian.”_

_“A Lucian King is a sacrifice--”_

_“People can’t live like that!”_

_“_ Listen to me! _” His father sighed, keeping his hands heavy on Regis’ shoulders. Surprisingly, they were warm but Regis could feel the cold sting of the Ring on his bare skin, “Our purpose as Lucis Caelums is to save this world from its disease. This battle has only proven to me that we have become complacent in recent years while our enemies have been innovating new, more efficient ways to bring about the end of days for their own petty aims! I will die soon.”_

_“Dad, what?--”_

_“Etro has already decided,” Those strong fingers dug into Regis’ shoulders, and suddenly, Mors didn’t seem as mountainous as he did just a few seconds prior, “I already know that you will be a good ruler, Regis, but when I leave this life, will you have what it takes to be a good king?”_

* * *

“Your Majesty,” Clarus’ hand on his shoulder was cold and it wasn’t just the dig of his leather gloves. Regis felt his stomach melt into his toes when he caught sight of his Shield’s expression and Titus had already stepped away from his side to gruffly mumble orders into his earpiece. “Noctis fell from the roof.” 

He blinked. ‘From the roof?’ Noctis hadn’t been allowed to go up there since he got back from Tenebrae. Regis knew that one of Titus’ men had been sneaking up there with Noctis for Six alone knows what reason, but he allowed it because Ulric was reliable and had proven himself trustworthy time after time. However, Ulric was out on a mission--an important assignment of the search and destroy variety--which meant that Noctis wasn’t supposed to go anywhere _near_ the roof. Hell, he wasn’t allowed to go past the thirtieth floor, everyone responsible for him knew that much. 

Regis looked at Titus, getting his attention, “Who was with him? What’s the current situation?” 

Titus didn’t even look at him, wholly focused on barking into his earpiece with growing intensity. 

“Clarus, what’s the situation?” 

His Shield made a complicated expression, “It seems the prince has vanished, Your Majesty.”

Regis quite suddenly wanted to strangle something, “‘Vanished’?” 

“He never hit the ground, according to the reports. Ignis and Glaive Ulric were the only witnesses.” 

Ah. 

“Do we know which spire he fell from? How long has he been missing?” 

Titus finally spoke, his voice supremely annoyed and borderline hostile, “North Spire. He’s been gone for approximately three hours, Your Majesty.” 

The king felt that _pull_ in his magic, a flare that had him wincing and leaning suddenly on Clarus for support as his knees buckled. 

“Regis!” 

“ _I’m fine!_ ” There was so much going on at once, but Clarus’ shoulder was firm and that throbbing was beginning to ache at his veins, at his bones. He balled his hands into fists, “The Crystarium. He’d have fallen into the Crystarium.” 

Titus was already growling into his earpiece. 

* * *

He already knew the Draconian would have dug his claws into Noctis’ magic. 

Just like the Kings of Yore, Bahamut hadn’t been particularly pleased with Regis’ decision to keep Noctis’ status from him and, just like the Kings of Yore, Regis had calmly told Bahamut where, precisely, he could shove that displeasure. Noctis deserved to know genuine love and attention before he took up mantle after mantle in pursuit of a crown he could never truly be ready for, needed to know that he hadn’t been born only to die for the amalgamated mistakes of a kingdom built on secrets and skeletons and for that, Regis was ready to fight even the Astrals if he had to. 

When they got to the Crystarium, Regis felt a wave of magic crash against his body. 

Clarus could feel the tension, had already angled himself in front of his king just in case he had to protect him from some unseen threat, but Regis simply grit his teeth. When he opened that door, he knew he would risk stumbling again. The Draconian’s aura was suffocating when he was awake and Regis was nowhere near well enough to be withstanding that oppressive magic. Yet still he put his hand on the doorknob, ignored the buzzing in the back of his head urging him to let the Draconian have his way with his son and finally let the Chosen King wizen up to the truths surrounding him, “Clarus, I’ll be needing that knee brace after this.” 

He didn’t stick around to hear his friend’s response. 

* * *

Noctis was so cold. 

Regis was holding him close, was trying to warm his son’s skin by calling on the slightest bit of fire magic and wrapping it around his fingers but his boy didn’t so much as twitch. The Draconian had no words for him, no explanation for this open display of disrespect for the King’s wishes and while he had let them leave unhindered, Regis could feel his gaze burning into his back with every step he took. 

Not that any of that mattered. 

The last time Noctis had been this still had been... _that_ night. The night that had haunted his dreams for years before the Marilith had actually struck them from the car, and continued to haunt his mind now that it had occurred. Then the thought came to Regis’ mind--if he hadn’t been so afraid of sleeping, would he have seen Noctis falling? If he hadn’t been so quick to busy himself with work so he wouldn’t have to look at his son’s sallow, pale face; at the scars and nicks that announced to the world that Regis had failed in his duty as father of this little boy, could he have stopped it? 

He wrapped himself tightly around Noctis’ frame, finally stepping out of the Crystarium and falling to his knees almost immediately. He startled the medics and the Guards that had gathered on Clarus’ order but he didn’t particularly care. His body was shaking, relief and fear and too many more emotions to name wrestling with his already weak bones. Noctis didn’t stir, his breathing so shallow that Regis was afraid even the slightest jostle would simply...break him. 

One of the doctors took a step forward, murmuring something to Clarus that Regis couldn’t hear over the sound of his blood rushing to his head. 

He should’ve been able to prevent something like this. He had vowed to himself that he would never see Noctis this numb, this _still_ ever again and if he had just _spoken_ to him, none of this would’ve ever happened. 

Clarus’ familiar gloves were within his gaze and Regis looked up, his mouth refusing to wench itself open where spit had stuck it dry. 

Ever dutiful, Clarus spoke for him, “We should get him to a doctor, Regis.” 

That made sense. Regis couldn’t say as much, not quite yet, but he agreed. Clarus waited for another moment and nodded his ascent to the doctor. Regis didn’t have the strength to keep Noctis smothered against him, gave no resistance when the medics slid Noctis’ body from his grip like the boy was featherlight and took up less space than the stethoscope wrapped around their necks. When he looked down at his hands, he wasn’t surprised to see them stained in blood. 

He gave a bitter laugh, his tongue felt numb in his mouth as he stared at the crust under his fingers, at the sticky texture burning into his skin. 

“C’mon,” Regis felt a dull pressure on his head, a stinging that forces him to look up at Clarus, whose dark blue gaze made him feel like he was some sort of kicked puppy, “You need to see a doctor too.” 

The King huffs, accepting Clarus’ hand and trying his best not to focus on the blood that was now getting in between Clarus’ fingers and dripping onto the ground and--

“ _Regis_ ,” 

He hums just to show that he’s listening. 

“Whatever you’re seeing isn’t real. Focus.” 

He hums but can’t stop looking at blood on the floor.

* * *

He wasn’t allowed to see Noctis. 

There was a meeting that had been postponed so Regis could get his wits about him again. Clarus suggested putting it off altogether still eyeing Regis’ hands like he was expecting them to fall off but anything was better than sitting in the waiting room where there was only the sound of silence and the feeling of his failures digging their teeth into his back. 

He needed something to do. 

Anything to do. 

* * *

“Niflheim is quickly encroaching onto Tenebraen land. By year’s end they _will_ attack, it is no longer a matter of ‘if’.” 

There was unease in the congregation, a murmuring that swept through the councilmembers collected at the foot of Regis’ throne. The king narrowed his eyes at Councilman Casca, keeping his posture relaxed despite the thrum of tension building within the room. He didn’t have to look at his right hand to know that Clarus’ heavy gaze was focused on Casca now too, his familiarity with his Shield deep enough that he could already predict the way the man’s thick fingers would be unsettled despite the parade rest he was holding. The topic of Niflheim invading Tenebrae was a prominent one, a very real threat that could topple what little semblance of reprieve both kingdoms had built for themselves in these Empire dominated times, but the most dangerous of things would be misinformation on their enemy’s movements. Regis caught Casca’s dark eyes, “And what proof have you of this claim?” 

Casca, to his credit, never wavered, “My spies have risked their lives to provide this information, my liege. And if you have doubts of the accuracy,” he produced a thin, silver coloured folder, placing it onto the oblong table before the council and sliding it towards Regis’ empty spot at the head, “then by all means, verify it yourself.” 

A muscle in Clarus’ jaw twitched at Casca’s tone, but Regis allowed it. The man was one of his Heads of Espionage, Regis had riled him first by jabbing unnecessarily at his competence. Instead of responding to the barb, he adjusted his position in his throne slightly, making a signal with his fingers for Clarus to retrieve the documents for his perusal. The councilman seemed to grow more confident the longer he stood--Regis could see it in the way his neutral facade broke into a delicate smirk the moment Clarus laid his hands on the impeccable looking folder. The king huffed to himself, he wasn’t used to getting potentially catastrophic news from his Council and he certainly wasn’t accustomed to being the last to know of the affairs of Niflheim when he called these meetings into session. Cor usually kept him abreast of things, always three steps in front of Lucis’ official informants; the mere fact, then, that the _Council_ had heard of this apparent change in Nif scheduling--that the news was in Regis’ court and he had yet to hear a whisper of it--was disconcerting in the worst of ways.  

The clicking of Clarus’ shoes against the tile of the floor pulled Regis from his thoughts. His Shield had been one word away from committing a felon since the day began, but the severe furrow in his brow as he presented the files didn’t bode well in the least. Ever so quietly, Regis murmured for Clarus’ ears alone, “Did you?” 

A single tap of his calloused index finger against Regis’ wrist as he passed the folder on and then he was shuffling back to his position at Regis’ right, his countenance dispassionate. Suspicious enough that Regis hadn’t heard the whispers in his own backyard, but sometimes he missed things. He was big enough to admit that he had been more than a little distracted as of late with Noctis’ recovery--but for _Clarus_ whose reach extended to the ears of each and every one of his Guards, whose job it was to sniff out even the thought of a threat against the crown and her allies to have not heard anything was not just strange; it was unheard of. 

Perhaps his poker face had fallen, or his reservations about the accusations had shown in the way he flexed his fingers because the moment he opened the folder to peruse its contents, Casca’s honeyed voice rang through the hall, “I must apologize for the...rough way the information is organized, Your Majesty. My men were under extreme duress while trying to compile as much information as possible about the upcoming plans. It seems they’ve completed a prototype of some kind and are planning on testing it in the fields of Tenebrae during this upcoming Autumn Sylleblossom Festival.”

Regis didn’t acknowledge the words, instead focusing on the monstrous information before him. It seemed like something ripped straight out of those Old Lucian-based horror films Cor insisted on watching on his days off. Niflheim’s beast experiments had always been abominable, but from these stolen spreadsheets, it seemed like they had figured out splicing different genes together to create superbeasts. Regis wanted so badly to dismiss this as conjecture, but it sounded right up Aldercapt’s alley. Still, he had to verify the data before he could make any judgement calls. He offered the folder up to his Shield, keeping his gaze steady on Casca throughout, “And these samples, your spies weren’t able to procure even a scrap of the formula?” 

Casca frowned for the first time since getting to his feet, “With all due respect Majesty, my spies didn’t think it was necessary. The science behind these beasts--it seems to have nothing to do with magic. In other words, it’s utterly profane.” 

The king hummed, “It’s profane, yes, but these results cannot come from technology alone.” He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together and laying his chin upon them, “If there’s even a sliver of magic involved in this process, then we need to learn of the type and prepare accordingly.”     

One of the younger Councilmembers raised his hand, a tawny young man with pale hair and paler eyes, “Pardon my forwardness, Your Majesty, but what of Tenebrae?”

Regis arched an eyebrow.

The youngster stood and Regis could quite clearly identify Aciliano Silvius the younger son of House Silvius. He wasn’t older than twenty-one but his sharp mind had proven indispensable and Regis was curious to see how he would prove his mettle. He spoke, “Tenebrae, like Lucis, is rich in magic. Is it not at all possible that Niflheim has...acquired samples from their borders?” 

Casca snorted, “Inconceivable! Only the royal line of Tenebrae is privy to the blessing of the Six, indeed just as Lucis.” 

“If memory serves, His Highness Ravus Nox Fleuret is receiving an Imperial education.” 

“Boy,” Casca cautioned, “what are you trying to say?” 

“Something doesn’t feel right about this,” Aciliano said and his face twisted like he was attempting to solve some complicated equation, “I understand that this is well kept information, but how is it that _no one_ has heard of these new beasts? Our envoys in Tenebrae and even our spies in Niflheim--surely if the Empire had acquired such a large volume of magic to enhance its Daemon army, someone would have heard.” 

There was murmuring about the room again, a general air of agreement settling amongst the other members. Casca huffed, a hairsbreadth away from pouting, “Hardly. The Marshal brings back impossible, hard-to-find information all the time and we trust his word without a lick of scrutiny. This is information that could potentially spare the world another Accordo tragedy and you’re trying to accuse me of fabricating data? Presumptuous, aren’t you Silvius?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything, Councilman Caius. I’m simply saying that an operation this massive couldn’t have feasibly stayed quiet for this long.” 

“Obviously,” and Casca had openly rid himself of any facade of calmness, rolling his eyes at Caius’ placid tone, “this was a top-secret operation. I lost three men over the course of the past two years accumulating this data--something not even the Marshal and his men have been able to uncover. Wouldn’t it be a great deal more prudent to work _with_ this information rather than fight over the logistics of it?” 

Regis and Clarus exchanged a look. Neither of them had sanctioned any deep cover missions, and Regis wasn’t even aware he still had men that far behind the lines of the Empire, never mind the fact that he had apparently _lost_ some of them. Cor hadn’t been on the field in a long time, acting as a proxy Shield for Noctis until he came of age and Regis would have never so much as conceptualized such a risky operation without at least having one of Clarus’ or Cor’s finest on the ground. It was becoming apparent that he had allowed quite a bit to slip through the cracks while he had been occupied with his son’s wellbeing.

For the first time since he had stood, Aciliano met Casca’s eyes, staring at the elder’s mild expression with a face that betrayed just how vehemently he was questioning the man’s intelligence, “Two years? Councilman Caius, I’m not sure if you remember but two years ago, the peak of Niflheimean bio-engineering was the _Marilith_ .” 

Casca huffed dismissively, “Two years is a long time, boy.” 

“It’s certainly a long time to withhold information from the Crown.” It wasn’t Regis whose dark voice rang out through the room, but Kingsglaive Captain Titus Drautos, the man who had planted himself firmly at the king’s left in Cor’s place. Titus’ imposing presence, previously muted as he kept his ear out for updates on Noctis’ situation, was now in full force, weighing the air in the throne room with a stifling sort of tension, “You’ve known that the Empire has been using magic in their abominations for two years and said _nothing_?” 

“I did what had to be done.” Casca had yet to lose his cool, but Titus’ steely gaze was beginning to make him fidget, “You, Marshal Leonis and even Lord Amicitia have all been so preoccupied fawning over Lucis’ Sleeping Prince that you’ve forgotten to attend to these matters of grave importance! _I_ simply saw what was falling through the cracks and acted accordingly!”   

Titus took a step, his natural glare becoming pointedly more aggressive at the mention of the prince, “And it’s coincidence that you’ve held onto this news until the time that would make you look best, I’m sure.”

The Councilman bared his teeth, a thin facsimile of a smile, “I’m simply proving that His  Majesty’s _Elites_ aren’t the only effective members of this court.” 

Regis unlaced his fingers, “Enough.”  

Titus stepped back into line. 

“Gentlemen,” the king said, finally sitting up straight as he addressed his Council, “this is no time for squabbling. Regardless of who uncovered the information and the manner in which it was presented, there is still a rather disturbing matter that has been glossed over.” Regis rose from his throne, accepting his cane from Clarus and striding down the stairs to the meeting table on the floor, “Suppose this information is legitimate,” the melodic clinking of his knee brace in tandem with the rattling of the buckles on his mantle echoed as though the room were perfectly empty around him, “And let us assume that it is accurate. If these things are fact, then we must begin to consider that Fenestala has fallen.” 

Casca, for the first time since presenting his findings, faltered, “I don’t see why that would be the automatic assumption, My Liege. Surely they could’ve used something else? Natural magic is all around us--” 

“That wouldn’t work,” Aciliano piped up, his voice contemplative, “This isn’t like elemancy or energy mechanics. These graphs,” and he flipped to the biometric data, spreading the pages out so he could more clearly scrutinize the haphazard pictures and hand scrawled notes, “it seems like living magic _has_ to be incorporated for something like this to be successful.” He pointed to the collage of failed sample graphs, “Look, these here seem to be the results from pure fire energy deposits mined on the outskirts of Cleigne after they were combined with one of the beasts. It failed. But these,” and he pointed to the data of what was, apparently, a successful experiment, ”This one succeeded after a different type of magic was introduced.” He looked up, apparently snapping himself out of his thoughts, “His Majesty speaks true. Somehow, Niflheim’s gotten a hold of living black magic.”

The elder councilmember sneered, “That’s impossible. The Crystal is the only source of black magic in the world and the Honourable line of Lucis Caelum are the only ones who can wield it!”

The young man frowned, “We both know that’s not the entire truth, Lord Caius.” 

Casca huffed, “Fenestala--no _Tenebrae_ would never betray us.” 

Regis’ composed voice cut through their discussion, “Tenebrae is Imperial land.”

Both men quieted down, turning their attention to the king, “It would be easy for Niflheim to coerce them into using their power to finish this war, easier still for Sylva to offer her power in exchange for the safety of her people and her children. If that were the case, at least we would have answers.” Regis pointed to the graphs still splayed out in front of Aciliano, “However, the Nox Fleuret’s magic is neither black nor white. And even if Ravus was being trained to betray his people, Sylva has already made it known that Lunafreya will be her successor. In other words, even if the Fenestalan Court were somehow involved in these abominable acts, the magic does not add up.” 

Aciliano squinted at the data spread out before them, his look of frustration rapidly melting away into an expression of horrified realisation, “Your Majesty…?”

The king raised a brow at the interruption, “Speak, Lord Silvius.” 

“Is it possible to extract the magic of the Crystal from the blood of a Lucis Caelum?” 

“It’s never been attempted before, at least to my knowledge, but the line of Lucis Caelum is joined to the Crystal on a biological and spiritual level. It’s magic permeates our being. It goes without saying that our bodies would also be conduits of its power.” 

Casca’s confidence had finally waned into an impatient frown, “What are you getting at with this, boy?” 

Aciliano closed the folder, pushing it as far away from him as possible, “The Scourge is a disease that affects the cells of its hosts. If, hypothetically, you introduced the Scourge to the cells of a Lucis Caelum and _implanted_ those cells into one of these beasts…”

Titus spoke up once more, “The Lucis Caelum are a line of Light. They’d destroy the Scourge cells.” 

Aciliano shook his head, “Introduce it in small enough increments and the most potent of poisons becomes its own antidote.”

Casca put his hands upon the table with force just shy of slamming it, “Stop speaking in circles and just say it already!”

Regis could feel his throat tighten, the pieces slotting together in his mind with a pronounced click. 

“If this information’s right then Niflheim isn’t just trying to merge magic with its technology,” he swallowed, eyes stuck to the folder but distinctly unseeing, “They’re trying to create a Daemon army immune to the king’s magic.”

“W-wait,” Lord Caius’ voice was quiet when he spoke next,“All of that conjecture is assuming the Nifs even have the blood of the prince or His Majesty. Whenever would they have collected the blood of either of them, Silvius?” 

That Regis could think of several instances made his bones ache and bile burn at his throat. Suddenly he regretted ever getting off his throne for he could feel his knees threatening to buckle. Aciliano spoke undaunted even though his tone was subdued, “Take your pick, Lord Caius. We’ve been at war with them since the time of King Mors. His Majesty fought in the Battle for Accordo and, barring that, just how much blood do you think His Highness lost when he was attacked by the Marilith?” 

“And if,” Regis was surprised his voice didn’t quake, but these were words that must be spoken, “ _If_ the Empire has compromised Fenestala and the line of Nox Fleuret, I need not remind this court that my son and I have recently returned from a five month stay in their care.”

* * *

 

“You don’t actually believe that Sylva would betray you.” 

Clarus’ voice was quiet as they walked to Noctis’ room, his eyes alert despite the apparent distance of his thoughts. Regis stifled the grimace threatening to break out on his face, instead choosing to focus on the folder still in his hands. “Did you send a copy of Casca’s report to Ackers?” 

His Shield, to his credit, didn’t so much as twitch, “Before we left the room, I gave it to one of the Glaives for verification.” 

“Excellent.” And there was silence between them save for the tapping of their heels against the tile and the irregular thump of Regis’ cane. He felt a bit bad for leaving Clarus with his thoughts but there was much going on in his head and even more going on in his spirit. That little show in the conference room had reawakened the Kings of Yore, and whilst they hadn’t started grumbling at him as yet, Regis could already feel the strain of their magic condensing in the back of his head. He had little doubt that the moment he laid down to rest, he would find himself facing their displeased faces and accusative voices. He gave a little sigh despite himself, it would be another long night then. There was shuffling about the corridors as the king and his Shield entered the common hall, the Guards rushing to give their best parade rests while the Glaives that skulked about the shadows straightened out their forms. Regis swallowed, his fingers flexing just a bit tighter around the grip of his cane. He would deal with the consequences later--would handle all of the fallout himself if he had to (would fight Niflheim himself if it came down to it) but for now, he simply wanted to affirm his son’s health for himself. 

The dread in his gut was nigh debilitating. He had put it out of his mind after he had retrieved Noctis from the lair of the Draconian, had buried the deja vu of holding Noctis’ too limp body in his arms deep into his mind so he could focus on the meeting he had at hand, but now, with nothing but the wide maw of the hall and the funeral-esque sobriety of the halls around him, he couldn’t help but laser focus on the unease piling itself onto his shoulders. He was so close to… again. Again. _Again_ Like this was some sort of sick pattern. Like his one and only son was cursed to fall and shatter along the seams of his scars eternally--like Regis watching while the colour drained from his cherubic cheeks was written in the books of fate. 

“Majesty,” Clarus murmured to him, his rough voice barely registering through the thick veil clouding Regis’ thoughts, “Your eyes.” 

And he blinked. Once, twice. Veered to the left and rest his free hand onto the ornate spirals decorating the walls. Closed his eyes, bit the inside of his lip then took a deep breath, hushing the cresting waves of magic and bloodlust and disappointment seeping into his senses from the Ring. 

When that failed to quiet the cacophony in his spirit he motioned for Clarus to approach, beckoning him to bend so Regis could have his ear. And he spoke--well whispered more like, the words choked off and mangled through his clenched teeth and discomfort, “This morning, the letter was sent out.” 

Clarus’ muscles tautened beneath the thick leather of his mantle, “For…” 

Regis nodded, bitterness thick in his voice, “I should’ve asked him. I should’ve _told_ him.”

His Shield spoke not another word, instead slipping Regis’ arm over his broad shoulders and peeling him from the wall with little effort. Regis’ fingers dug into the fabric of his cape, the pressure insistent enough that Clarus could feel their press through the thick layer of armour. “What’s done is done, Your Majesty. Noctis is a smart boy. He’ll understand.” 

They walked deliberately, Clarus’ sure steps guiding his king’s absent feet. The Guards in the hall seemed antsy, a few breaking formation to help the king but one meaningful glance from Clarus had them stepping back into line, “I could’ve lost him today.” 

“You didn’t.” 

And Regis’ fingers were pressing so deeply that Clarus could feel the skin beneath the armour pinching, “One day I will.”

They came about one of the wide windows, the meager stars of the Insomnian sky barely shining through the dense light pollution of the city and Clarus huffed, straightening Regis’ form so he was forced to walk taller, “Is that what They’re telling you?” 

A laugh, harsh and acrid like the unshed tears dampening those jewel bright eyes, “I don’t need a Ring to remind me of the truth, my friend.”

“Then go to him and tell him the truth. The boy will understand.” 

They could see the doors to Noctis’ medical suite, the deep blue and gold marred with the oppressive aura of a particularly sullen Kingsglaive operative; one Nyx Ulric. He wasn’t quite glaring, standing in a neat parade rest that somehow managed to ooze insubordination and unwillingness but his frown was deep and the nervous, near hostile energy around him was enough to give the other Glaives a wide berth of him. It only took a few steps more for him to notice the king and his Shield and unlike the other Glaives and Guards they had passed on their way from the meeting hall, instead of shaping up, Nyx’s posture became even more acerbic. 

Regis took his hand from Clarus’ shoulder, garnering a wary look from his friend even as he allowed the king to adjust himself and walk properly on his own two legs. His expression had ironed itself into something lighter in the face of Nyx’s unflinching antagonism and he quietly pressed his elbow into Clarus’ side to get his attention, “What, exactly, do you think Titus is teaching those Glaives of his?” 

His friend snorted, soft and surly, “Clearly not manners.”

Once they were within earshot, Nyx gave the shallowest, rudest bow he could without being outright disrespectful, even going so far as to keep eye contact the entire time. With twisted lips he began his report unprompted, his words sharp like shards of glass freshly broken and thin enough to slice straight to the bone, “His Highness awoke two hours ago. Hasn’t said a single word since he opened his eyes.” 

Regis nodded, his eyes searching for a familiar bespeckled head of golden brown, “And Ignis? I assume he’s with him inside?” 

Nyx snorted, openly and loudly, seemed to be half a second away from rolling his eyes as well, “With all due respect Majesty, that kid just saw his closest friend and charge take a swan dive off the roof. And he thinks he’s the one responsible for His Highness’ tumble. No one’s seen Ignis since the prince first disappeared.” He averted his eyes for a moment, mumbling something in Galahdrian under his breath. 

Clarus inhaled sharply from behind him and Regis bit back a regretful smile, “And the Marshal?” 

“Been holed up with His Highness since he was admitted. Last I checked, he was reading to him.” 

Regis gave a light nod, “Good work Ulric. Clarus will relieve you of your duties. Rest up and stay on alert.” 

Nyx gave a complicated expression, his frown deepening and the furrow in between his thick eyebrows creasing his forehead into something knotted and hard. He met both Regis and Clarus in their eyes and opened his mouth before shutting his jaw with an audible clack and bowing properly instead. He made to leave when Regis called after him, “You seem to have something you want to get off of your chest, Ulric. Speak.” 

And he flinched. Gave a gusty exhale before digging into his pockets and retrieving a glass sparrow-whistle, “I promised him I’d bring a souvenir back,” and Regis stretched his hand, accepting the weighty ornament in his palm with awe in his veins. Nyx’s entire expression spoke of unease, an aggressive caginess that telegraphed to all the world that the training rooms would be short of a few dozen dummies after tonight yet his fingers were tensionless as he passed the whistle--gentle like he was afraid he would break the glasswork from the power of his fingertips alone, “Make sure he gets it, Your Majesty.” 

And with that Nyx stepped off, shoulders broad and gait heavy. 

“Shall we?” Clarus broke the silence. 

Regis gave a weak smile--nothing more than a frail twist of his lips, “You stay here, Clarus. Watch us. Cor will be out shortly.” 

He slipped the delicate green whistle into a pocket, steeling himself for whatever he might encounter and opening the door. 

* * *

Cor was sitting on the bed, reclined into the pillows--a great, dark stain on what should have been pristine white sheets. He was splayed oddly, his sharp black boots falling off the bed while his torso seemed to be twisted at an uncomfortable angle. He was without his jacket as well, the missing article of clothing laid over his stomach and--oh. 

Noctis was asleep on Cor’s stomach. The Marshal dwarfed the child in every aspect of the word, only the faint, constant rise and fall of the suspicious lump Regis had thought was a knee and a shock of matted hair ends poking out from beyond the collar of the jacket had given his son away. As usual, he slept deeply, not even the uneven clank of Regis’ brace or the thump-thump-thumping of the cane had so much as made the boy twitch--though it did seem to gain Cor’s attention. 

The only hint that the Marshal had ever been asleep was the slow crawl of his eyelids as the loose curtains of skin receded to show off his hazy blue eyes. He didn’t need to blink or yawn; it was as simple as one moment he had been at peace and in the other those piercing eyes were trailing every move made and cataloguing every shadow, mote of light and spore of mould in a given area. Regis met his gaze with a small smile, his entire body relaxing at the knowledge that Noctis was well, unharmed and in one piece. 

He walked to the bed, stopping only when he was so close that his thighs were creasing the sheets, “How is he?”

Cor didn’t move much, the rises and falls of his chest shallow as though he was afraid that simply breathing would disturb the sleeping child on his breast, “He’ll be mad you came while he was sleeping.”

“Ulric told me he had just woken up,” He stretched his fingers, barely grazing the first wisps of his son’s fine obsidian hair before a sinking in his stomach had him recoiling his hand. He studied that hair, blinked at the apprehension staying his touch, “Did they medicate him?” 

A sedate shake of the head, “Too soon to tell. He wouldn’t let anyone touch him.” 

At that, the king gave a wry smile, “And this?” 

Cor met his expression evenly, his eyes shining mischievously despite his hard-nosed face, “The exception.” 

They shared a moment of light quiet and Noctis shivered from beneath Cor’s thin jacket. He clicked his tongue, the noise muted but entirely too nostalgic for Regis’ liking and he watched as the Immortal carefully adjusted the collar and sleeves, “There are extra blankets in the cupboard.” 

And the king couldn’t even protest at his subordinate giving him orders (not that he minded any) because Cor looked at Noctis with eyes that mirrored Aulea’s all those years ago, with the same glow that would soften Clarus’ severe frown, with eyes Regis couldn’t remember making since all of this madness had begun. The tightening in his throat was something completely separate from the apprehension that had stayed his fingers earlier as he retrieved one of the thicker blankets. His insides churned, an unease that made it difficult for him to meet his battle brother’s eyes as he handed over the sheet. 

“Cor,” he began, his anxious heart burning in the cavern of his chest. For Cor’s part, he was adjusting the sheet as best he could without disturbing  Noctis’ position. He tucked and folded the stray ends of the chocobo stencilled thing, movements economic, like he was accustomed to this--like he had been tucking Noctis in all his life, “Did he jump?”      

Steady hands rested on the crown of the boy’s head, “When was the last time you spoke to him, Regis? _Really_ spoke to him.” 

And suddenly, Regis felt a cold fury settle in is stomach, a prickling in his blood that made him want to defend himself. He resisted the urge. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

The look the Marshal levelled at him then made him feel...small. Humbled in a way he couldn’t remember feeling since his father’s bitter words in a not so distant past, “If you actually spent time with him, you’d never ask that.” 

“And I suppose you’re the expert on children now?” This is foolish. So incredibly foolish because Noctis was right there and this was neither the time nor place to entertain this sort of thing but Regis felt so terribly _cold_ , “Weren’t you the one advising against me ‘becoming soft’ when he was born?” 

To Cor’s credit, he remained unruffled, his voice never pitching, that calm rumble never betraying the frustration practically burning in his snowstorm blue irises, “I’m not the one avoiding his responsibilities, _Your Majesty._ ” 

“We are on the cusp of war--” 

“ _Volume._ ”

He took a breath, monitoring Noctis sleeping form for a second to ensure he hadn’t accidentally roused the child. He was losing it is what he was doing, carrying on like this when he should be thanking Cor for doing what he never could. Yet still his tongue continued to strike, “I’m doing everything I can to take care of him. To prepare him for this court of snakes and mice.” 

“Which is why you keep him out of politics and out of civil affairs and away from his birthright.”

“ _Cor-_ ”

“He’s been complaining about headaches lately. Bad ones, not unlike the ones you get when the Kings of Yore want your attention.” 

Regis’ heart just about stopped in his chest, “What?”

“Ignis was keeping me updated, said that he was having nightmares again. He’s been falling asleep during activities as well.” 

Regis couldn’t stop the shaking in his hands. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t been expecting it. Noctis was growing up, and he was growing up _fast_. Regis had been so busy trying to protect him from the truth that he had stopped noticing the little things about his son. Had started treating him like he was something to keep out of the way. He looked down at his hands, at the stark black of the Ring, at the son he was slowly alienating. 

Gods, Aulea, he was an idiot, wasn’t he? 

There was a hand on his knee. Cor had shifted for the first time, had somehow managed to move Noctis from his chest and onto the mattress without much fuss from the prince. The boy in question was well and properly curled into a ball of chocobo down blanket and Cor’s too big jacket, his face pale but not unwell. His jaw worked a bit, his tiny eyebrows furrowing like he was on the verge of waking up before his countenance relaxed and he went back to being doll-like in his stillness. 

“You can’t protect him forever, Regis.” 

He didn’t know what expression he was wearing, didn’t know what colour his eyes were, didn’t even know what exactly he was feeling, but in that moment he felt the weight of his decisions collide with him--crush him under their force, “I want to. By the Six, I want to.”

Cor nodded, “Trust me, my friend. I understand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regis was really interesting to write. I don't have many chapters carded for his perspective, but I hope that this gave a bit of an insight into him and his stuff. 
> 
> Feel free to leave comments hehehe


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